Into the Darkness
by EverspringNative
Summary: Set in Paris, 1861. A young Erik has spent 10 months as a captive of the gypsies where he is humiliated and abused for his appearance. Following the death of his uncle Erik's life has been consumed with despair while on display as part of the traveling circus-until he meets a ballerina named Madeline (Mme Giry) and finds his way beneath the opera house. (Part of a series.)
1. The Escape

Chapter 1

Paris, 1861

"Turn here," the girl said breathlessly as she tugged me around a corner and into a darkened alley.

She pressed her back to the brick wall and I did the same. Wide eyed, I attempted to steady my breath, but the race out of the gypsy tents and into the streets of Paris left me gasping for air and sick to my stomach.

In the back of my mind I could still see Garouche on his knees, the life in his eyes fading as he slumped forward. The welts to my shoulders and back still stung, my scalp still throbbing where he had grabbed a fistful of my hair and wrenched me back and forth before a paying crowd of onlookers. The pain and humiliation were equal, both vying for my full attention.

My knees began to give out, my vision tunneling as consciousness wavered. I swallowed hard and tilted my head back. He could not beat me again, not ever. I had strangled him. Alone in the tent, I had finally sought my revenge.

"What's wrong?" she asked, jarring me from my thoughts.

I shook my head, wondering why she asked. No one had cared for me. No one had reason for concern. I was a faceless monster on display, a hideous beast. The devil's son.

And I was about to vomit. Or I was going to fall to my knees and pass out.

"I need to remove the hood," I whispered. "For a moment."

She released her vice like grip on my clammy hand and I turned away, yanking the hood off. The cool air against my face was a welcomed change and I took a deep breath. Before I could return the covering over my head, the girl placed her palm against my damp forehead, then shook her hand out and placed the backs of her fingers to my good cheek. My eyes widened and I sucked in a breath.

"Don't," I said sharply. "Please."

She frowned, her eyes filled with remorse as I quickly covered myself. "You look like you're about to be sick."

"What does it matter to you?" I said under my breath.

"I...I only wish to help."

Ashamed of my outburst, I bowed my head and felt gooseflesh rise along my arms. "I apologize."

"There's a doorway up ahead," she said quietly. "The carriage drivers and stable boys use it as a shortcut to the kitchen mostly, but never this late."

I nodded and she took my hand again, pulling me down the alley. My toes curled as I stepped barefoot into a puddle, the cool water sloshing against my ankles.

"Where are we?" I questioned.

"The Opera House," she answered as though it were obvious. I heard the jingle of metal clattering together as she fumbled with keys.

With a slight push of her hand, the door before us opened with a groan. We walked inside, the cold, uneven alleyway replaced by smooth stone flooring and then a wool rug. A flicker of light down the hall revealed numerous sacks of grain piled nearly to the ceiling.

"Down the hall," she said, nodding to our left.

I froze, suddenly alarmed I had walked blindly into a trap.

"Are the gendarmes waiting there?" I asked.

Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand."

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked. "Do you intend to turn me in for a reward?"

To my own ears it sounded like madness, yet I made no apologies. For the better part of a year I had been tormented day in and day out by gypsies. Garouche's children stole from him and pinned the blame on me, knowing the punishment would be swift and severe. They stood in the shadows like blood-thirsty vultures, their expressions blank and eyes lacking remorse each time their father beat me. I swore he knew I had not taken coins from him, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered.

Prior to being their captive, my own father had used me as a release for his anger. I had little reason to believe a lifetime of suffering would end on this night. Quite frankly I wasn't sure what I would do without fighting to survive.

The young woman stood before me and shrugged. "I honestly have no idea why I brought you here, but it was not to turn you in for a reward." She stepped closer to me and wrung her hands. I could smell her perfume, like sugar and vanilla. "You were suffering. I didn't want to see you remain in that cage."

The cage. Her words made me shiver as I thought of the iron bars that had housed me for ten months-and how she had changed my fate by extending her hand to me.

The night had gone as all others before it, and I had numbly awaited the humiliation. As soon as Garouche had led the small crowd into the last tent, I spotted her bright, curious eyes and oval face. She stood at the rear of the group, her hands on the shoulders of two smaller girls. From a distance our eyes met. I saw her grip tighten on both of the children in front of her and she leaned forward, whispering to them. A warning, I suspected. _Do not touch him. He is diseased._ At least once a night parents warned their children to stay at a distance from me, from the devil's child.

My mind seemed to shut down the moment the crowd entered. Garouche rambled through the same lines each night, encouraging the onlookers to purchase a piece of rotting produce from a wooden box he kept near the cage.

 _Throw it at the devil! Tell him what you think of his wickedness!_

Sometimes, when the crowd was more than a dozen, I felt safer within the cage than out of it as grown men stalked past, their eyes cold and hardened. The larger the crowd, the more belligerent they became.

Garouche would rattle the bars and use his wooden club to rile the onlookers until men surrounded my small cell, their knuckles white as they gripped the bars, lips turned into vicious snarls. For the most part I sat motionless in my confines, eyes cast down, the burlap sack covering my listless expression. I shriveled in their presence; hoped to disappear from their view.

But this night I had not stared at the straw covering the dirt and grass beneath the tent. The young woman who loomed cautiously in the distance had piqued my interest and I watched as she examined her surroundings, her lips pursed and eyes filled with concern. Every few seconds she would look me in the eye, her frown deepening.

 _Tell him what you think of his wickedness!_

I flinched, not realizing Garouche had already opened the cage door. He stomped inside and yanked the hood from my head as he always did, though this time I had not been prepared. I sucked in a breath, my head shooting up as I cowered beneath him.

The young woman gasped and covered her mouth. Tears filled her eyes as the other onlookers stared and pointed.

A boy no older than four followed Garouche and tossed a small stone, which struck me in the temple. I blinked, turning away as the crowd laughed and cheered on the child, telling him to throw something else.

Again I looked at the young woman, the only face in the crowd not cackling with amusement. She looked from me to Garouche and shouted, "Leave him be."

Garouche ignored her words and grabbed a fistful of my unwashed hair, pulling my head back. "Take a good look at this. You will never in your life see another one like it. Raised from the dead, reanimated by Lucifer himself. I am told this is the devil's favorite son."

Dozens of eyes stared back at me in horror and amusement. None of them saw me as a person, but as a beast deserving no mercy. They could not see their own wicked actions in the heat of the moment, how the devil possessed them more than me.

"I'll beat Lucifer out of him, yes I will!" Garouche shouted.

And just as he did every show, often four times a night, he clubbed me six times in the back and along my ribs. Why he had decided on six strikes I never knew, but I always counted each one.

This night, however, he surprised even me when he threw down the club after six thrashings and shoved me to the ground. He placed his boot in the middle of my back and stomped the air out of my lungs.

My chest stung, my lungs feeling as though they were leaden. I bawled my hands into fists and gasped, almost certain my back was broken.

"You there!" he called.

Eyes closed, I knew he spoke to the young woman. I had come to know Garouche's belligerence all too well over the last ten months and feared for her. I struggled to sit upright, but my head swam and eyes watered.

"You sympathize with this wretched creature?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself," she shouted back, her voice trembling. "Every single one of you. He is a child, not an animal."

I attempted to lift my head and find her one last time, but Garouche made certain I stayed put and placed his boot on the side of my face. I knew if I dared to move, he would break my jaw with one stomp of his boot. In defeat I closed my eyes and lay still, afraid to even groan in agony.

"Young lady, I beg to differ. You are all fortunate this abomination has been caged and beaten down. He is truly a treacherous bastard and the world would not be safe with such a creature walking free."

With his dominance firmly asserted and the crowd satisfied, Garouche flung out his arms and gave an exaggerated bow as people threw down a small amount of coins at his feet and shuffled toward the waiting slit in the tent. They had been dazzled by acrobats, strong men, exotic animals, and at last the most vile of animals confined to a cage.

I was certain the girl was gone and I had no way of thanking her for her words. From the corner of my watering eye I saw Garouche crouch down to collect the coins left behind by the onlookers. He whistled to himself, completely unaware of the rope inches from my grasp.

"Barely enough here for supper," he muttered. "You become more and more of a burden to me."

Somehow I managed to sit upright. With trembling hands, I decided I would no longer be his burden.

"Why did you turn around?" I questioned the young woman who had freed me.

She reached into her cloak pocket and held out several small candies. "I wanted to offer you a small gift. Something to perhaps relieve a bit of your suffering."

My breath caught in my throat. I stared at her open palm for a long moment, unsure of whether I should take the candies.

"Here." She grabbed my hand and pushed three small treats into my fist. The warmth of her touch made me shiver and I stared in disbelief at her soft, clean fingers touching my filthy, bruised hand. Her kind gesture was foreign to me and I worked my jaw but could not find the proper words.

With a nervous smile, she met my eye. "My name is Anne, but everyone calls me Madeline because there are six other girls named Anne." She shifted her weight. "Well, most of the girls in the ballet call me Mother."

I unwrapped a piece of candy and stuffed it into my salivating mouth.

"What is your name?" she asked.

I shoved the piece of candy against the inside of my cheek. "Erik," I answered. "But no one has called me by my name in a long time."

"Erik," Madeline repeated thoughtfully. "Hardly the name I would have expected to hear from someone in the company of gypsies. Are you Norwegian? Danish, perhaps?"

I shrugged. Garouche had billed me as emerging from the fiery depths of hell. "I don't know."

"It is a strong name." She nodded in approval. "I suppose it does suit you."

Her words made me blush, even though I felt she was incorrect in her assumption. "Why do they call you Mother?"

Madeline rolled her eyes. "Because I am the oldest dancer in the ballet and I make certain the younger girls do not lose their shoes and ribbons. Without me, there would be no ballet in the Opera House." She smiled again, this time with ease. "I do not mind being called Mother. I like caring for all of the other dancers."

She could not have been more than five or six years older than me, but there was something quite matronly about Madeline. I wondered if my own mother had ever been a kind, youthful woman who cared for others. My only memory of her was rage and incoherent babbling.

"How did you come to live with the gypsies?" she asked, motioning me to follow her down the hall.

I very much wanted to tell her everything that had happened to me and yet I thought it best to keep my story to myself. I feared talking too much would frighten her and emotionally I could not handle being rejected again.

"I was found and taken," I said vaguely.

"Stolen?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"In a way, yes."

"Is someone looking for you?"

I shook my head. "I have no family left."

Already I had said far too much, but my words garnered a sympathetic look from Madeline as we entered a large pantry. She gathered several items into her cloak before we turned and entered a hallway. Without prompting I followed at her heels like a duckling trailing a mother duck, afraid I would become lost in the dark labyrinth she had apparently memorized.

"You are an orphan then?"

I didn't answer.

"When did your parents pass?" she questioned.

"They are still alive as far as I know," I answered quietly. "I would rather not speak of them."

"You stayed with other family members then?"

"For a brief time," I answered.

Madeline turned slowly and looked me up and down. Her gaze settled at my feet. "You have no shoes. My goodness, how did you run through the streets barefoot?"

Ashamed, I stared at my filthy feet. Desperation, I wanted to say. Instead I settled on a shrug.

"We will find you some shoes," Madeline promised. She placed her hand on my shoulder. "And some clothes in better repair. Come with me."

In silence Madeline picked up a large burlap sack and deposited the food she had gathered in her cloak into the sack, which she then handed to me before proceeding through a maze of hallways that all looked the same.

"The hood, were you forced to wear it?"

"I prefer it," I replied.

"Why?"

"Because when the hood is off I am displayed as a monster. I am not a monster," I said through my teeth.

She looked over her shoulder. "What happened that you have those scars?"

I shrugged. "I have had them for as long as I can remember."

"Your parents never told you if you were born with them or injured?"

I shook my head. "My mother would not look at me and my father…" I looked away from Madeline, ashamed of admitting my own parents had hated me, loathed me as though I had chosen to burden them. Absently I ran my left hand along my right forearm and felt goose flesh rise against my skin. "He made certain I knew he did not care for me."

"He was cruel," Madeline said.

He was a violent drunk, a belligerent, intolerant brute of a man with a short temper. He was more than cruel. He was the devil. Garouche had been correct in one aspect; I was the devil's child.

"I was a terrible child," I muttered. "Always running away."

"Did he beat you?" she asked.

Her question angered me, not so much because she asked me but because of the memories conjured up. Often I fought sleep as I knew when I closed my eyes my father would stalk me in my nightmares. Heavy footsteps, the smell of alcohol, and broomsticks reminded me of his hatred.

"He did not stop," I said at last.

"I am truly sorry."

Frustrated, I reached up with both hands and grabbed two fistfuls of the hood. "Why do you care?"

"The old ballet Mistress used to hit us with her fan when we missed a step in practice," Madeline said. "She would want perfection on the first try, and whether it was me or the dancer two girls to the right, she would yank on our hair and slap us with the fan. Not one of us ever complained or uttered a word. We feared her, but we did not challenge the Mistress."

Madeline came to an abrupt stop in front of a rack of clothing and rifled through several shirts, trousers and other various items. She pulled down a shirt and held it up against my chest. "Hold out your arms," she instructed.

I did as told immediately and watched as she checked the length to my wrists and nodded in approval. Slinging it over her shoulder, she proceeded to remove a pair of trousers from the same rack and held it up to my waist.

"These will need taken in," she said. Her eyes flashed up and met mine. "You are far too thin, skeletal, almost."

I nodded, unsure of how to respond to her observation.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen, I think."

"Yes, you need more meat on your bones. Most definitely." She smiled. "Now try on these boots and see if they fit.

I became quite obedient to her every request and slid my bare feet into a pair of boots that were much too small. With a frown she dropped another pair in front of me. "What about these?" she asked.

"They are fine," I answered as I wiggled my toes and found they fit.

She seemed satisfied with my answer and looked me over again with a warm smile. "Now take off the hood. It is quite dark in the stairwell."

"Where are we going?"

"Some place where you can eat and rest in peace."


	2. The Fifth Cellar

Chapter 2

Madeline stood at the top of the first set of stairs with the burlap sack over her shoulder and a candle she had lit in the pantry. "Remove the hood," she said again, this time more sternly.

Gaze lowered, I shifted my weight. "I am more comfortable with it on."

"The staircases consist of fifteen stairs at a time and there are five flights of roughly hewn steps. That is seventy-five stairs, if you did not know. If you miss one stair, which you likely will in that hood, you will fall a great distance and likely break an ankle or your arm."

I hesitated a moment, somewhat intimidated yet still fascinated by her stern demeanor. I took a deep breath then grasped the hood with both hands and pulled it off. Before I could turn away from Madeline, she snatched the hood from my grasp and examined it.

"When was the last time this was washed?" she asked as she scraped mud off the fibers.

"Never," I answered, annoyed by her question. I wanted to tell her I was fully aware of my filthy, tattered clothes and unwashed body, however, Garouche wanted me to be more of an animal than human in every way possible. Stinking, filthy wretch of a child, he would say to the crowds.

"Trousers taken in and hood to be washed," Madeline said, ignoring my tone. "Follow me."

She skipped down the stairs, taking them two at a time with the burlap sack swinging back and forth like a pendulum. She rounded the staircase, the candlelight flickering against the stone wall as the stairs spiraled downward.

With no other choice, I scurried down after her, hand grazing the wall and eventually a long, metal bar for balance as I navigated the uneven stairs.

"Are there really seventy-five stairs?" I asked once I caught up to her.

"There are. I have counted them." She looked over her shoulder at me and smiled.

"What is at the bottom?"

"The Opera House has five cellars."

"Cellars?" I slowed my pace. My heart hammered against my rib cage at the thought of staying in a cellar, one familiar hell exchanged for an unknown future.

"Natural caves is a more appropriate description."

"With bats?" I asked.

Madeline giggled. "Heavens, no, not that far down, but there are fish within the underground lake. I've seen them whip through the water."

Her words piqued my interest and I wondered what my uncle would have thought of an underground lake far beneath the Opera House in the middle of Paris.

"The first three cellars are in use for extra costumes, wigs, props, and many of the gifts the patrons have left for our star performer, the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo. There are trunks and boxes filled with music boxes, fur coats, fur coats for her dogs, perfumes… it is truly a spectacle. Most of the larger props are in the first cellar, but there are also tools and unused pieces of wood for set designs and the like."

Madeline spoke with her hands, I noticed. And she seldom took a breath as she described the contents of the cellars in great detail. Every time she looked back at me, she beamed with pride, and the longer I listened, the more intrigued I became of my surroundings.

"The fourth and fifth house a few unused props and belongings from people who no longer live here, but no one ever goes down that far. The fifth has a lake and an old furnace and enough items to furnish at least five full apartments."

"A furnace?"

"Yes, although I'm not sure if the furnace still works and there is way too much rubbish blocking it anyhow. We used to play hide and seek in the fourth and fifth cellars when the Mistress had days off. Of course, we haven't done that in a very long time."

Games had always intrigued me. There were many nights I watched children play hide and seek around the campsite as the fair traveled from one village to the next. Brothers and sisters would squeal and dash away from one another, not a care in the world. They would shriek with delight as they tackled one another, and as I hunkered down out of sight, I envied their freedom and jovial nature. I wondered what it felt like to sprint blindly into the night, my siblings on my heels, bare feet trampling the cool, damp earth. Such a simple pleasure had eluded me.

"The cellars further down are very secluded. You will be quite safe there, I assure you. The traveling fair leaves in three days, so I would suggest staying here until they have moved on. I do suspect someone is looking for you."

I imagined both gendarmes and gypsies alike searched for me. I already knew if they found me, my death would be prolonged and violent, perhaps spanning several days. In a way, I did not think I deserved anything less than a tortuous end.

"Where do you stay?" I asked.

"The dormitory." She glanced at me and rolled her eyes. "There is no privacy. Each dormitory houses eight dancers and they are always taking one another's combs, ribbons, and clothing. I used to store sweets under my mattress until Angelina found it. Come to think of it, I should store everything of value down here where no one would ever find it."

"Do you come down here frequently?" I asked.

Madeline shrugged. "Perhaps once a week after rehearsals when no one is looking. You cannot tell at this hour, but this is a very busy and crowded building. There are a total of thirty-two ballet dancers, two dozen stagehands and set builders, the cooks, the seamstresses, the house manager, the maids, stable hands and coach drivers. There is a doctor on staff, a publicist to handle public affairs, ticket takers, and so many others. We are our own community, really, a city within a great city. There are over two hundred people living here at any given time."

"Does everyone who works within the Opera House live here?"

Madeline giggled to herself. "Goodness, no. Thankfully the managers live in their own homes on the other side of town and only visit during performances. The lead actors have their own flat on the other side of the street. They call the whole building di Carlo Palace, though I don't think they actually own the building."

She rambled on floor after floor, rattling on inconsequential information about the theater and its occupants. I listened intently, asking questions periodically but mostly enjoying her company. Almost a year had passed since anyone had cared to speak to me as though I were a person. As I languished in a cage, I had almost forgotten my own humanity.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked as we reached the bottom of the fifth set of stairs, My legs felt almost boneless, my knees threatening to give out after descending so many stairs at once. Madeline, on the other hand, appeared as though she could easily descend five more flights.

"I became a dancer when I was four and officially became a resident when I was seven, although I spent half of my time back home with my parents" she answered as she handed me the candle and the sack. I stood awkwardly beside her as she leaned into the heavy wooden door and pushed it open.

"I could have done that for you."

"Yes, I know, but I have done it many times before on my own. You are very kind and I do appreciate your offer."

I was glad it was dark and she could not see me blush.

"Where are your parents?" I asked.

"England. Back home for the year. Every six months I return to London for a week with my parents and two brothers, and once a year my parents visit the Opera House to see a performance."

We entered the cellar, a _woosh_ of cool, fresh air greeted us as though we were outside. I marveled at how fresh and clean the cellar smelled; almost earthy like a forest. Water lapped upon an unseen shore.

"You are not French?" I asked.

"I have lived in Paris for the last eleven years, I dance on a French stage for a French opera house and I am paid in francs. How much more French could I be?"

Her words amused me and I smiled.

"Where are you from?" she questioned.

"I don't know."

Placing the candle on a long wooden table, she looked at me briefly. "How do you not know where you are from?"

"My parents kept me in their cellar."

The revelation surprised Madeline almost as much as it surprised me for answering truthfully. Ashamed I looked away from her and stared into the darkness. I had never told a soul of my past, partially because no one had asked and mostly because I did not want others to know what I had endured. The marks on my face were reason enough for most people to shun me.

To my surprise, Madeline did not shrink away from me in disgust. "What do you remember of the city you are from? Anything at all?"

"It was a small village on the coast with streets that turned to ice in the dead of winter. For days no one dared leave their homes because the air was so bitterly cold. It was very quiet in the winter, but in the summer there were fisherman passing through and fights in the streets when men drank too much. The taverns were filled with music every night. That is all I remember."

"Were the gypsies in your village? Is that how you came to be part of their fair?"

I shook my head. "My uncle took me away from my parents home one night," I said fondly. "He was a fisherman and a musician and a storyteller."

"You were close to him?"

I nodded readily. "He was..." _More like a father to me._ More like a father should have been, I knew. "He was good to me. Better than I deserved."

"That is well." Madeline pulled the top off a wooden box and reached inside. "Ah, here we go. Candles. I knew they were in one of these boxes."

Together we lit a dozen candles from the single one she had brought into the cellar. Slowly the sheer vastness of the space became visible, and I looked around in awe at our surroundings.

Truly this was no cellar but a natural cave with an underground lake and several tunnels leading into the depths. Behind us-where we had entered-there were wooden crates stacked one on top of the other as well as a bed frame on its side and several large mirrors partially obscured with drapes.

Madeline placed the candle box on the ground and laid the burlap sack in the middle of the wooden surface.

"You must be starving."

As if answering, my stomach growled, which Madeline found amusing.

"I'm afraid there is no hot meal available tonight, but this will make due for now," she said as she organized the food into apples and pears, bread, cheese, and salted pork. I had no recollection of her grabbing most of the items, but the sight of it made me salivate.

"Clean clothes," she said, folding the shirt and trousers. "And here is a towel, soap, and a robe for you to freshen up. The water in the lake is cool but not cold. I think you will find it refreshing before you have a bite to eat and settle in for bed."

"This is all for me?" I questioned.

She nodded. "Bathe yourself. I will return in a half hour with a blanket and a pillow."

Before I could question her further, Madeline hurried toward the doorway and padded away, leaving me alone in the cavern with my newfound treasures.

I waited a full five minutes before I dared to move from my spot beside the table. Slowly I removed my filthy, tattered trousers and ripped shirt and left them in a heap beneath the table. I brought a candle with me to the edge of the water and watched the gentle ripples at my toes. Soap in hand, I inched into the lake, sucking in a breath as the cool water lapped against my shins, then the middle of my thighs.

"Cool, not cold," I said with my teeth clenched and chunk of soap squeezed tightly in my fist. I placed the candlestick near the lake and watched the flame flicker. The water was most definitely cold, but there was no turning back. I held my breath, then fell backwards into the water and completely submerged myself.

For several seconds I remained underwater, surprised at how the bite of cold became comfortable. I kicked my feet and propelled further into the inky darkness where I was met with a rush of warmer water bubbling up from the cave floor.

I surfaced from the depths into the shadows of the cave and blinked as I floated in the middle of the warm, soothing water. My feet touched the smooth floor easily and I stood hip deep, admiring my secluded surroundings. At last I worked the soap into a lather and washed my hair for the first time in months.

I ran my fingers along both sides of my face, felt the knot near my left temple where the small child had struck me with the stone, and the uneven flesh on the right side.

I could not recall the last time I had truly bathed. Once in a great while I was permitted to enter the creeks where the gypsies bathed and washed their clothing, but it was more of an unsatisfying, ice-cold rinse than anything else.

This moment, however, was pure pleasure, and I savored the sensation of the bar of soap in my grasp and the scent of lemon and basil. I made my way back to the shallow water, scrubbed myself head to toe, then waded back in and dove into the warmer pools. I felt along the bottom of the lake and discovered a fissure about the width of my hand where the warmer water emerged.

Out of breath, I turned upright, planted my feet against the floor, and sprang upward, creating an impressive splash.

"Erik?" Madeline called. She knocked on the door. "Are you dressed?"

I had completely forgotten she had promised to return.

"N-no," I shouted back. "I'm still in the water."

"I will leave the blanket and pillow outside the door then."

"Don't leave yet," I blurted out. "I will only be a moment."

I wondered if she heard the sheer desperation in my voice as I asked her to stay. As much as I had enjoyed being in the water, I wanted company more than solitude.

"I will wait," she promised.

I shivered as I made my way back to the table and toweled myself dry as fast as I could. "Come in," I called as I finished buttoning my trousers.

She walked in with her eyes closed and a pillow and large blanket held to her chest. "Are you dressed?"

"I would not have asked you to come in if I had been indecent."

"Then you are a more courteous man than half the people in the Opera House." She fluffed the pillow and handed it to me. "I'm afraid you'll need to sleep on the ground for the night. Tomorrow we will make you a more proper bed."

"I don't mind the ground," I said. "You should not trouble yourself."

She waved off my concern with a flick of her wrist. "No trouble."

I smiled inwardly, enjoying how she fussed over me. The title of Mother fit her perfectly.

"I cannot stay long," Madeline said as she scraped two wooden chairs across the ground. I hurried to help her with both of them. "There will be too many rumors swirling around the Opera House as it is."

"What do you mean?"

Madeline sighed. "When I went to find you a blanket and pillow there were gendarmes searching the stable."

The hairs on my arms rose in goose flesh. I stepped back from the table and swallowed hard. In my mind I pictured two dozen burly men trudging down the cellar stairs. There would be no escape once they found me.

"I cannot stay here," I mumbled.

Sympathetic eyes stared back at me. "You must stay here," she replied, her voice calm and even. "Where you are safe."

Heart racing, I shook my head. "You would be an accomplice. They would see me hanged for murder and you as well for freeing me."

My vision started to tunnel as panic set in. I gripped the back of the chair to steady myself, knowing full well the size and shape of my cage had changed, but I still was not free. They would find me. Indeed, I felt as though at any moment they would burst through the door and take both of us away.

Madeline held up both hands, palms facing me. "Erik, calm down. You are not going anywhere, not tonight. If you were to step out the door, where would you go?"

I could not bear to speak, let alone form coherent thoughts in my head. The same nauseous, overwhelming sensation that had washed over me the moment I released Garouche's lifeless body consumed me once more. My fingertips lost feeling, my heart beating so fast I thought it would explode. My eyesight started to darken and my hearing failed.

I had killed him without a second thought, that man who had put me in irons so heavy I could barely lift my blistered feet to follow behind the wagons. I had wrapped a rope around his fat neck and held it in place until he ceased to struggle. Not once had I considered letting up once he fell face first into the straw. Not once had I looked at him with compassion or mercy. An eye for an eye. Eventually it was either going to be me or him-and he had beaten me so badly I wished for death. I was not the least bit remorseful of my actions.

Anxiety wrapped its way through every nerve. I was resolved to feel nothing at all and yet there were hands on my shoulders, steady and warm. I blinked several times and realized I was seated on the ground with a blanket draped over me and Madeline on her knees in front of me. Her face came into focus, pale and filled with concern.

"Can you hear me?" she questioned.

I nodded and grasped her trembling hand, feeling as though she anchored me to the world. She squeezed back and sighed in relief.

Once the sheer panic dissipated and my heart rate slowed, I rubbed my hand over my face and remembered I was no longer wearing my hood. Somehow this realization made my breakdown worse.

"You collapsed before my eyes," she said.

"I know," I replied blankly.

"Has this happened to you before?" she asked.

"Once or twice," I said under my breath. Both times I had been left to suffer alone, afraid and ashamed of my emotional episode. Both times I had been brutally beaten into submission; once by my father days before my uncle had come for me and more recently by Garouche days before we arrived in Paris. Paralyzing anxiety had left me defenseless each time, yet strangely I had felt no pain until I had come back to my senses.

"You are under far too much stress for a boy your age," Madeline said. She straightened the blanket over my shoulders before she rose to her feet. Unable to move, I watched as she gathered food from the table onto a plate and joined me once more on the ground.

Her genuine concern surprised me, as did her insistence that I eat. I stared at the ripples in the lake as she pushed the plate closer to me. Everything about her was motherly and warm-and so unlike the woman who had birthed me.

"When was the first time this happened to you?" Madeline asked.

"I would rather not speak of it," I said.

"You are ashamed?"

"Yes."

"I do not think you are at fault." Madeline frowned but didn't persist. She grabbed a handful of grapes and popped them into her mouth one by one.

Hunger outweighed my overall misery and anxiety, and I took a piece of bread and a thick slice of cheese from the plate. We ate in silence, me staring into nothingness and Madeline staring at her hands. Her actions seemed strange to me as I was accustomed to people staring at me, my every move scrutinized. Most people seemed to be under the impression that because I was locked in a cage this made me deaf to their comments and blind to their vulgar staring.

"You must forgive me," I said at last. "I have not shared a meal with anyone since my uncle passed away."

"How long ago did you lose him?"

"Ten months ago. I buried him in the woods the same day the gypsies found me," I confessed. The memory made me shiver.

The trauma of watching him die and digging his grave was worse than any beating I had endured. For weeks I had mourned his loss and wished I had died beside him that day. To my utter disappointment, no matter the heaviness in my chest, it was never enough to crush my beating heart.

"How did he die, if you do not mind me asking."

"He was very ill." I looked up at Madeline and swiped the tears from my eyes. "I did not know he was sick at the time, or at least I did not realize he was so terribly sick. He should have been resting and yet he wanted me to travel with him to find his son."

"Where were you traveling?"

"Here," I said. I took another bite and chewed slowly. "To Paris."

Madeline's eyes widened. "You have family here? We could find him."

"How? I do not have an address."

Madeline shrugged. "A note in the paper, perhaps? I could ask patrons if they know of him. What is his name?"

"Kimmerson," I said. "Or Kimmer. I am not certain which one, to be honest, but his given name is Joshua."

"We will talk about it in the morning." She rose smoothly to her feet and picked up the empty plate. "For now you must rest and I must return to the dormitory. We start rehearsals at ten in the morning. Once we are finished I will return."

She reached down once more and placed her hand on my shoulder. "I will bring you more food and we shall share a meal again."

"You are very kind," I said.

Her bright smile returned. "There is no reason for me to be cruel."


	3. Newfound Freedom

Chapter 3

Exhausted, I slept deeply within the underground caverns. The cave floor was surprisingly warm, most likely due to the hot springs bubbling beneath the rocks, and with a blanket and a pillow of my own, I enjoyed more comfort than I'd been allowed in nearly a year.

I thankfully had the sense to leave several candles burning nearby and woke to the wax melted down into stumps. With no way of telling the time, I rolled to my feet and lit new candles. With no one to disturb me, I dozed on and off, my mind at ease and dreams for once not plagued by nightmares. For a long time I stared at the dark lake and imagined how my uncle would have reacted to our surroundings. I could almost hear his deep, resonating laugh as he watched me dive into the water.

For months on end I had been kept confined by the gypsies, my freedom limited to an hour or two where I was shackled and turned out like a dog released from its cage. The gypsies-Garouche in particular-allowed me a twelve foot radius between the horses and little dogs, his daughter Lipa's bichons. The small white dogs were used in some of the performances, but for the most part they bounced on their back legs and made ungodly noises as they begged for attention.

Garouche intended for the chain around my ankle and placement between animals to be humiliation, but I felt more comfortable silently sharing a meal with six bichons dressed in tutus than I did with most anyone else in the whole camp. The dogs did not judge me for my appearance or treat me as an oddity. In the company of animals I felt content. On some nights when they curled up against my back and licked my neck, I smiled inwardly and found small moments of joy in an otherwise hellish life.

Once I grew tired of lying around, I finished what food Madeline had left the previous night and eyed the stacks upon stacks of wooden crates and boxes. Most were painted with black lettering reading "Opera House", which seemed somewhat unnecessary.

Curiosity and boredom got the best of me and I opened one of the smaller boxes and discovered an entire collection of stage makeup and powders. Disappointed, I set it aside.

The second box proved much more interesting with a collection of monocles, a stage prop cutlass, a looking glass, and several pocket watches.

"Erik?" Madeline knocked on the door and startled me.

"I'm here," I replied, grateful for her company.

She pushed the door open and hurried in with a basket in hand. "Did you sleep well? I do apologize for being late."

"I did not know what time it was."

"Noon," Madeline announced. Her dark skirt swirled around her as she moved across the floor. "Rehearsals lasted an hour longer than normal and unfortunately I am required to attend afternoon rehearsals as well."

"I found a watch," I said as I dug into the box. "I will keep it wound."

"You've been keeping yourself busy. That is well." Madeline smiled and set the basket onto the table. "Come sit and eat while the food is still warm."

That was all I needed to hear to abandon my endeavors. I took a seat across from Madeline as she produced two large bowls wrapped in napkins. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

"Roasted chicken," she said. "With green beans and potatoes."

Hot food was a delicacy I had not partaken in very often, and as soon as Madeline uncovered my food I dove fingers first into the bowl and stuffed so much food into my mouth I nearly choked.

Madeline sat wide-eyed across from me, her lips parted in shock at my animalistic display. With a gasp, she reached across the table and pulled the bowl away from me. "There is plenty more in the kitchen. No need to choke yourself."

Ashamed of my actions, I folded my hands under the table while Madeline proceeded to take two forks, knives, and folded napkins out of the basket. She arranged her silverware, placed her napkin in her lap, and proceeded to say grace.

Like a dog I salivated as I stared at my uneaten food. I waited for Madeline to take her first bite before I slowly reached for my bowl, afraid to be scolded for acting like an uncivil.

"Do you like it?" she asked after several moments of eating in silence.

I nodded readily. "I had almost forgotten food was served hot."

Madeline paused, her fork clattering onto the table. Her cheeks reddened and she looked away. "What have you been eating?"

I fought the urge to push my chair back and walk away from the table, frustrated by her constant questions regarding my life. I thought of my uncle and the stern glance he could issue that would quell my impulsive anger before it swelled into rage. I imagined his hand on my shoulder, keeping me firmly in place at the table, his lips against my ear. _She means no harm, my child. Easy_.

"Whatever I could find most days," I said quietly, afraid my voice would tremble as I spoke. "Sometimes there was nothing at all."

The horses were provided with fresh hay daily, the small dogs rewarded with scraps straight off their master's plates, and the gypsy performers sat around a fire and shared meals. Most nights I sat alone in the dark and awaited my turn to scrape the bottom of the kettle or scrounge through scraps for something edible. Occasionally there was enough food left for a full meal, but on most nights I slept with my stomach still gurgling.

"I can relate," Madeline said.

My gaze shot up to meet her eye. I highly doubted she could relate to me in any way, but still I listened intently.

"My first year in the ballet I learned to elbow my way through the food line or starve," Madeline said. "In fact, my first week living here in the dormitories I think I had one potato and a cup of cold soup." She made a sound of disgust. "You would not believe how ruthless ballet dancers can be when there is chocolate mousse to be had for supper. Honestly they are fortunate I did not bite their fingers off."

Her words saddened me and I looked away, unsure of how to respond. I could not imagine someone as kind as Madeline ever suffering. She did not deserve harsh treatment or hardships, and when I looked in her eyes, I had no desire to think of her life reflecting any part of mine.

With a sigh, Madeline dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and held up her index finger. "Which reminds me. I brought dessert."

I swallowed and sat forward in anticipation.

"Do you like sweets? I know some do not care for indulgences."

I nodded and watched in silence as she produced a small tin wrapped in paper and tied with a string.

"Apple tarts," she said proudly. "The very best apple tarts in all of Paris and they are made right here in our kitchen."

I finished my food in silence while Madeline talked about morning rehearsals, upcoming afternoon rehearsals, the slippers and ribbons one of the dancers had lost, wept over, and found in a matter of fifteen minutes.

Madeline had the ability to tell complete stories with seemingly one breath. I listened and nodded as she spoke, mesmerized by the movements of her hands and the way she sat forward and spoke with such enthusiasm. When she looked across the table at me she smiled each time, even though I no longer had my hood to hide my face. She was truly extraordinary in every way-and each time she laughed or grinned, I knew I did not deserve her friendship.

Every night I sat alone in the darkness watching the gypsies and their children share meals and stories while I sat in the shadows with my knees up to my chin. Late into the night they sang and laughed, and I longed to be included in their circle. I had spent my entire life living beneath my parent's home, out of their sight and out of their mind, but in the cellar I was rarely lonely as I dreaded my father's company.

However, with the gypsies I could hear every word and see their every interaction, the way mother's caressed their children's faces, the way men held the hands of women. The loneliness I felt was magnified by depths I did not know ever existed.

While I sat chained in the distance, I imagined my uncle across from me, his hands wrapped around a mug, his thin legs stretched out. While he was alive, we had talked about the different frogs singing in the night or the roads we had traveled during the day. He told me of books he had read, adventures on the high sea, and stories of his children whom I had never met. Other than his stories, I found immense enjoyment on the nights he played the violin and sang songs in different languages.

 _Did I ever tell you about when I heard the siren's song one night after a storm?_ _Sweetest sound I had ever heard while out to sea._

His eyes twinkled when he spoke of mythical creatures, and although I was old enough to know his stories were fabricated, I sat on the edge of my seat and listened intently each time. The sound of his voice soothed me, made me forget the rest of the world. He understood me like no one else; like a father should have known his son.

All of our conversations seemed so meaningless and simple-and yet I wanted to hear his voice one more time as he told his fantastical tale of nearly falling victim to a siren.

Madeline, on the other hand, had a much different way of speaking. While my uncle spoke slow, his voice deep and low, Madeline spoke almost as though she were singing. She was animated and laughed often, especially when she pushed her hair back from her oval face. Her stern, matronly demeanor turned girlish and she became more of a confiding sister than a motherly figure.

"What time is it?" she asked abruptly as she took a bite of the apple tart.

I looked at my pocket watch. "Three minutes past one."

She gasped and sprang to her feet. "Second rehearsal start in seventeen minutes. I must leave at once."

I stood with her and together we hastily gathered the bowls and silverware. She tossed them into the basket and ran to the door with me at her heels.

"I will see you tonight," Madeline said over her shoulder. She briefly squeezed my arm and I winced as her fingers pressed into a healing wound.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked.

"It is nothing."

"Let me see," she insisted.

I lifted my sleeve with great reluctance and shook my head, but Madeline gave me a disapproving look before she examined my arm briefly. She sucked in a breath through her teeth as she circled her thumb around the puncture wound.

"How long has it been like this?"

I shrugged. "Not long."

She shot a disapproving looking in my direction. "By the looks of it, I would say far too long. I will bring something to help that heal before it becomes infected and your whole arm falls off."

Apparently my uncle was not the only one fond of exaggerations. I smiled back, appreciating her motherly concern.

"I will return with supper. Stay here," she said before she closed the door and disappeared from sight.

And just like that I was alone once more.


	4. Pirate Treasure

Chapter 4

Although I was limited to the fifth cellar, I still had more freedom at my disposal than I had enjoyed for months, if not my entire life. I had the lake to swim, myriad boxes to explore, and a whole collection of other objects mixed in with the various sized crates.

Rather than languish in my loneliness, I decided to pull out several boxes and set them on the table. Hands on hips, I smiled inwardly at the possibility of endless treasures awaiting discovery in all five boxes I had selected.

"Gold," I whispered to myself. Some hapless fool had left his treasures buried here a hundred years ago.

I pictured a pirate with a scraggly black beard, silver rings on each finger, and pistol on one hip and a sword on the other. In his arms he carried his vast treasure in a large wooden chest, coins and jewels spilling out with each step. There were hounds baying in the distance, hot on his trail. Unable to make his escape, the pirate left the treasure behind and fully intended to return for it at a later time, but shortly after he left the treasure hidden, the dreaded pirate of the high seas was shot in the back and killed instantly. He left behind priceless treasures meant for his love, the king of Spain's daughter. Only the jewels in this collection matched her beauty.

A morbid tale, yet full of excitement and unrequited love-and best of all, treasures of untold value.

I thought of Amelie, the girl I had met while traveling with my uncle, and the jewelry stolen from her family by the gypsies. I wondered if the box I had sent to her arrived and if they had kept or sold the contents. I thought of her mother and her warmth and kindness, and her older brother who had disliked me because of my mask and the flesh beneath.

But mostly I thought of Amelie dressed as a swan, her heart as pure as her white dress and feathered mask. I thought of how close she stood to me, her shy smile, and they way she smelled like vanilla and sugar, just like Madeline. Many times over the last ten months I swore the thought of Amelie Batiste kept me alive. A thousand times over I relived each moment in her company, and despite the chaos around me, I clung to her memory.

The moment I had seen Madeline enter the tent the previous night, I had first thought it was Amelie. For those fleeting seconds when our eyes had met, I had felt a sense of peace and relief in seeing her again. Our friendship, brief as it had been, made me feel as though I were an ordinary boy in the presence of an extraordinary swan princess. My heart still fluttered when I thought of the night we had shared dancing and sharing a meal.

Whatever treasure awaited in these boxes, I would send to Amelie along with a note that I was safe in Paris. I owed her a great deal more, but this was a decent start.

Excitement thrummed through me as I pried the first box open with the wooden cutlass I had found previously. Unfortunately I found myself underwhelmed by the contents: carpenter tools. While useful, I found myself disappointed by no sign of gold or precious jewels in sight. My shoulders dropped and I sighed. This was not quite the gift I had envisioned sending her. My romantic notion seemed to have fallen flat-for now. Surely greater treasures lay hidden.

The second and third boxes were filled with books and yellowed sheets of music, which piqued my interest but were still not suitable gifts. Annoyed by what I had discovered thus far, I picked at the apple tart, which was now cold, and thumbed through the books. I was beginning to think there would be no treasure left by an ill-fated pirate.

I rested my chin on my palm and took a well-deserved break, alternating between a few chapters of Charles Dickens and the last crumbs of the apple tart. Eventually I became disinterested in _Oliver Twist_ and I closed the book, then tossed it back into the box.

Hours had surely passed, I told myself. I checked my watch and discovered Madeline had left only forty-seven minutes ago. I threw my head back and nearly tipped my chair over in exaggerated despair. Frustrated but still determined to make good use of my time, I placed the opened boxes on the ground and pried open the fourth box.

My luck was no better as the fourth box contained shoddy toy boats and several wooden apples, all of which I assumed were probably props for the stage. I had half the mind to toss the box and its pathetic content into the lake but refrained.

"Please be something of value," I said as I set my sights on the very last box.

This one was longer and lighter than the previous four I had selected, which immediately deflated my hopes of finding gold. Unlike the other boxes, which had been nailed shut, this one had a lock, which clearly meant the contents was of utmost importance. A real challenge, I told myself, something worth finding was in this box-and I had found tools with which to open it.

Little by little I managed to pry open the hinges with the help of a flat head screwdriver and a hammer. The wood splintered around the screws, and I imagined myself prying open the jaws of a wolf. Each screw was a tooth in a jaw with the strength of a steel trap. The beast had taken Amelie's family treasures and I had sworn to recover them or die trying.

With one mighty crack, the container splintered open, the top of the box separating from the hinges, which dangled from the damaged wood. My heart raced and chest heaved as I stood, candle in hand, peering into the conquered maw before me. Finally, I had been the victor and the spoils were mine.

I stared for a long moment, barely able to believe my eyes. Finally, I had found a bit of treasure, although it was definitely not gold or jewels. Yet for me, it was much more: A violin nestled ever so gently in a folded dark green velvet cloth. I marveled at the natural ripple of color in the maple and ran my fingers along the upper bout and waist. This was no ordinary instrument; this was a masterful creation and most likely worth a great sum of money.

I picked up the violin with the greatest of care, my lips parted in awe at the craftsmanship. I may not have known much about music in my youth, but I realized immediately that this violin was something special. As I placed my chin against the chin rest, a surge of pride and elation strummed through me, followed by trepidation as I wondered who had held this instrument before me. As if fate answered my query, a card fell out and landed beside the box, which I plucked off the table and held to the light.

 _Property of G. Daae_

My luck had at last made a most spectacular turn. The pirate had left me treasure after all.

"Thank you, Pirate Daae," I said to myself. I held out the violin and examined it one last time before I placed it back in the box and covered it with the green velvet cloth as though it were a sleeping infant. "I will take care of your greatest treasure."


	5. The Swedish Scoundrel

If you're reading along, please let me know!

Chapter 5

Madeline returned that evening as promised and brought food and supplies, including a salve for the wound on my arm, which she insisted on cleaning. I could have easily taken care of the injury myself, but she would not hear of it and I submitted without question.

Truthfully I enjoyed the way she doted and fussed over me. My uncle had cared for me in a different fashion in which he was firm and direct. If he asked me to gather firewood, I was on my feet at once. If I dropped a piece of wood or burnt my fingers making my meal, he looked at me from where he sat smoking his pipe and nodded once to acknowledge my plight.

"You're fine," he would say regardless of whether or not I was truly well.

At the end of the night he praised me for a well built fire and my skills at learning to boil rabbit and potatoes. He did not lavish me with undue praise, but a nod and a smile meant the world to me. When he placed his hand on the top of my head, i felt as though I had truly done something remarkable. For all my father had withheld from me, my uncle provided with stern leadership.

Madeline, on the other hand, was a mother hen who spoke softly and fretted over my well-being. She took a deep breath and looked from the rag soaked in calendula salve to me, her eyes filled with concern. With a sympathetic frown, she placed her free hand just below the inch-long wound as though to brace me.

"I apologize if this hurts," she said.

She dabbed the rag against the walnut-sized hole, apologizing profusely even though there was little discomfort. I kept my gaze trained on her face as she winced on my behalf and wrinkled her nose. I marveled at how she sucked in a breath and mouthed an inaudible prayer on my behalf. No one had ever shown so much concern over me, and I relished every second of her attention.

"This is quite deep," she said. Her eyes flashed up to meet mine as she silently asked for permission to continue the treatment.. "How long has it been like this?"

I thought a moment, deciding whether or not I wished to tell her the truth a I assumed she would be quite horrified. "A week or so."

Her eyes bulged. "A week? My goodness, that is far too long for something like this to go untreated."

"It looked worse a few days ago," I offered, which it had. There had also been a fever to the wound, but I decided not to tell her every detail. Clearly she was already concerned and I did not want to worry her further.

To my surprise, she merely grunted. "What is it from?"

"A nail."

At once Madeline froze, the color draining from her face as she stared at me. "What do you mean?"

"I hit my arm on a wagon. There must have been a nail sticking out from a board."

Her eyes narrowed, and I knew she did not believe my story. "You must have hit your arm hard for it to be so deep."

I grunted in response. Andrie, Garouche's oldest son, had shoved me from behind and I had slammed shoulder first into the wagon. The head of the nail snagged against not only my shirt, but tender flesh. The incident left behind a wound the length of my small finger and the depth of my thumb nail. I hadn't noticed the laceration at the time as Andrie had wrapped a rope around my neck and threatened to strangle me when I refused to obey his orders. The rope burns had faded, but the iron nail had left its mark.

"This will sting," Madeline said.

"What is it?"

She removed the cork from a small bottle and I knew by the smell immediately what was inside. I held my breath and turned away from the familiar smell of alcohol. Madeline most likely assumed I turned away from the threat of pain, but it was the overpowering stench that made my stomach churn.

A splash of cold liquor trickled down my arm and I grit my teeth as it bit into the wound. I jerked my arm away, muscles tense at the surprising stab of discomfort. I steadied myself as Madeline mopped up the excess and apologized again.

"How long will I smell it?" I asked as I attempted to breathe out of my mouth.

"A while I would think," she answered. "Does it bother you?"

"Immensely." I swallowed hard, my mouth filled with saliva and my belly in knots.

"Do you need to sit?"

I shook my head and turned away from her. Without a second thought I walked directly toward the lake and crouched ankle deep into the water. I splashed my upper arm until the smell of alcohol dissipated, then I splashed more water on my face and neck to quell the sickness I felt in my gut.

"Erik?" Madeline called. "I apologize. I did not know you were sensitive to the smell."

I stood and shivered, my trousers and hair soaking wet. With my back to her I looked at my upper arm. The fresh scab had come off, the flesh beneath it pink and tender with a small amount of pus. There would be yet another scar left behind, another reminder of how my appearance had made me into more than a pariah.

Madeline placed her hand on my bare shoulder, her touch gentle and soft. I startled at the unexpected sensation of her fingers against my bare flesh and unintentionally pulled away. She did not attempt to place her hand on me again.

"Come out of the water and let me wrap your arm," Madeline coaxed. "I promise I will only apply the salve."

I nodded and allowed her to guide me out of the lake and back to the table where she instructed me to sit. She stood beside me and arranged the three candles side by side, then unrolled the bandage and placed the small jar of salve beside it. Thankfully the alcohol was nowhere to be found. Arms crossed, she examined the contents on the table in silence.

She was stalling, I knew. Perhaps she was uncomfortable in my presence now that I had broken down multiple times. Perhaps she realized at last I was far beyond saving.

I imagined-or rather hoped-she would place a day's worth of food into a sack and politely inform me the fair had left Paris and I was free to leave. Perhaps she would include a few extra bandages and the salve to help my arm heal.

Cast out again, I thought to myself, before I had a moment to settle. I could not help but think to myself that in this lifetime I was not meant to have a family or friends. I was destined to live alone in the shadows or put on display for others to mock. There was no in between.

Honestly I could not blame her for wanting to be rid of me. In truth I was surprised she had helped me escape in the first place. Expecting anything more was foolish and naive.

"Lift your arm," she instructed.

I stared straight ahead as she dabbed salve onto the wound. I imagined this would be the most suitable time for me to take my leave as it was close to nine at night according to my pocket watch and the city streets would be dark. On foot I would head north and exit the city as I suspected the gypsies would continue west.

With any luck I could return to the village where Amelie Batiste lived. Perhaps I could learn a trade or tend fields for her family. I hoped her brother would allow me to stay in the stable for a night or two, perhaps longer if I proved my worth. If he did not, I would seek shelter in a monastery. My uncle had mentioned it in passing as a place he thought I would be safe as long as I labored and earned my keep.

"You'll need a change of clothes," Madeline said as though she heard my thoughts.

I nodded, resigned to the idea of leaving at once. Solemnly I stood and looked at the fresh bandage on my arm, grateful she had taken such care to dress the wound.

"The hood," I said. I reached up and touched my damaged cheek, the reason behind my solitude."I am without the hood."

Madeline clearly recognized the panic in my voice. Her eyebrows shot up and she straightened her back. "What of it?" she questioned.

"I would like it back before I leave."

Madeline placed one hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side as she mulled over my words. "You do not wish to stay here?"

For a long moment I stared back at her, perplexed by her question. No one had ever wanted me to stay and I could not understand why she was different.

"What is wrong?" she asked. "Please, tell me."

"I thought you wanted me gone," I said at last. "You were so quiet. I was afraid I had offended you."

Her gentle smile eased my racing mind. "There was terror in your eyes," she said. I watched her grab the blanket from the ground where I had slept. She shook it out and draped it over my shoulders, her hands lingering momentarily on my arms as she looked me over. "I was frightened for you and I did not know what to say."

Her actions soothed the anxiety I felt bubbling up. I closed my eyes and leaned into her touch, thinking of how each night I had spent with the gypsies I had seen mothers engulf their children in heavy blankets around a fire. They smoothed wild hair, touched round cheeks, and kissed small heads in loving, protective fashion.

How I had envied such small gestures, longing for just one night of my own mother acknowledging me as her son. One kiss to the top of the head was all I wanted, one loving embrace instead of a cold stare.

I knew my own mother heard my father stumble down to the cellar, his belt in hand. I knew she heard each crack of leather against flesh and the yelp I always tried to stifle when the buckle broke skin. Not once did she come to rescue me from his anger. Not once did she tell her husband to leave me alone. Not once had she seen the aftermath of his drunken rage.

She lived within the house and yet in my world she did not exist.

I looked up and found Madeline's face close to mine, her eyes filled with concerned.

"Please trust me enough to tell me what troubles you."

"My father," I said under my breath. Tears flooded my eyes, which I shamefully swiped away with the back of my hand. Emotion got the best of me, that razor's edge between anger and melancholy. Many nights I thought the sadness would eat me from within. How worthless he made me feel even when months had passed since I had lived in his violent hell. "The smell reminds me of him, and the recollection is not a fond one."

"Did he drink?" Madeline asked.

"From the moment he woke in the morning until he passed out at night."

Most often he passed out drunkenly on the cellar stairs or somewhere else within the house. I hated when he remained in the cellar with me, mumbling and snoring while I crouched beneath the stairs and prayed he would not hear me whimpering. My every breath was calculated as I feared waking him. From the time I was a small child I learned to sleep lightly in his presence.

Madeline took my hand in hers, which took me by surprise. Her hands were soft and warm, her touch more comforting than I had ever imagined. For the first time in my life, I understood what it was like to experience the love and protection from a motherly figure-and it came from someone I barely knew.

"You were hurt by him when he drank," she said.

There was no question. Her words were simply an acknowledgment of what I had implied.

"I recall nothing of him other than the smell and…"

Pain. Fear. Agony that now didn't seem real. Humiliation that left me numb for days. I did not need to explain what I experienced as the look on Madeline's face told me she already understood.

"I will not make the same mistake again," Madeline promised. She gave my hand a gentle squeeze, the sort of reassuring gesture I had seen between mother and child many times. While I had been prepared to beg my own mother for an ounce of affection, Madeline offered a soft touch willingly-and to me without my hood. Her actions truly mesmerized me.

"I did not mean to blame you." My gaze shot up to meet hers. "My intention was not-"

"There is no need to apologize." She pulled the blanket tighter, her knuckles grazing my chest. "I've brought you trousers that should fit better and a shirt my younger brother left behind the last time he visited. It's good quality. You will like it."

She rose from her place beside me and gathered up the salve and unused bandage, which she exchanged in her bag for two pairs of trousers, a wool sweater and a brown button down shirt neatly folded.

"Change into dry clothes before you fall ill," Madeline instructed. She gave an impatient flick of her wrist as she walked out the door and said to make haste.

I pulled off my wet trousers and undergarments and shivered as I put on the shirt and wool sweater over it. The trousers, as she said, fit much better than the first pair, and I smoothed my hands over the fabric, I could hardly believe I was given such luxurious items.

Once dressed, I opened the door. Madeline gave an exaggerated curtsy and clasped her hands together.

"Monsieur," she said. "You look very nicely dressed for supper."

I gave an awkward bow before I followed her back to the table. "You look very nice as well, Mademoiselle."

Fine manners were not my strong suit, but I very much desired to be a gentleman. I pulled out a chair for her and she smiled back at me. "How very kind of you," she said as she took her seat.

I plopped down across from her and sat forward, awaiting another shared meal.

"Unfortunately there was not much left for supper once rehearsals ended and I didn't have time to run across to the cafe before they closed up, so there isn't much to eat," Madeline said as she produced a second, smaller bag that had been placed on the floor next to her chair. She set a dish with a silver cover on the table. " _Haches parmentier_ ," she announced as she uncovered the plate. "I hope it is enough."

"What is it?" I asked. Truthfully it looked like someone had smashed potatoes atop meat.

"Delicious." She pushed a fork toward the plate and sat back.

"You are not eating?" I asked, feeling somewhat self-conscious of devouring food while she looked on.

"I took supper with the other dancers," she explained. "They will start to question why I choose to eat alone if I do not sit with them at the table. Already there are rumors."

"What sort of rumors?" I asked before taking my first bite.

The meal was nothing like what I expected. The potatoes were mixed with cheese; creamy on the inside and almost flaky on the top. Beneath the layers of fluffy potatoes was tender beef and sausage. A hint of tomato sauce and a bit of onion and garlic added to the flavor. I had never tasted anything quite like it.

"I have heard twice already that I am married," Madeline said with a chuckle. "A secret husband staying across the street from the Opera House. By next week I am sure I will have a dozen children also in hiding."

"You would be an excellent mother," I replied without considering my words.

Madeline blushed. "Some day, God willing" she said. "Once my career on the stage is finished and I have retired happily somewhere in southern France, I will find me a wealthy husband and give him many sons."

"You do not enjoy the ballet?" I asked.

Madeline shrugged and rested her chin against her palm. "Most days." She twirled a strand of long, dark hair around her fingers on her free hand and sighed. "I suppose this is better than awaiting my mother's choice of a suitable husband. Her ideal fiance is much different than mine, which is why I intend to save my earnings and do as I please for at least a year or two after I leave the Opera House. Other girls spend all of their wages on dresses and perfume in hopes of snagging a suitor, but I am buying my freedom."

When I looked at Madeline, I did not see a person who needed freedom. Her honesty surprised me and I appreciated her openness. In truth I barely knew her and yet I felt as though she had already become a dear friend. I told myself no matter if I stayed in the Opera House for another day or for a month, I would remember her always.

"Has she found a husband for you?" I asked. A spike of jealousy fueled my inquiry as I did not want to lose her company.

Madeline's eyebrows shot up and I realized my question was far too intimate.

"That was rude of me," I said. "My apologies for prying."

"She has picked out at least a hundred and each time I roll my eyes or tell her I am not interested the list grows by a dozen. Do you know what I should do?"

The question was rhetorical, but nonetheless I shook my head.

"I should tell her I want all of them." She flashed a devilish grin. "My own harem in the middle of London. She would spend weeks on end praying for my soul."

"I did not know women could have harems."

"I will be the first."

Her words made me smile as I finished the rest of my _haches parmentier._ "This is the most delicious meal I have ever eaten," I stated.

"I am glad you enjoyed it as the kitchen prepares this meal at least three times a week."

I grunted. "In no time I will be fat."

Madeline giggled to herself and crossed her legs. In the process she kicked one of the boxes I had set on the floor and peered beneath the table. "You found a violin?" she questioned.

I had almost forgotten my treasure. "I did. There was a card inside with the name Daae."

Madeline furrowed her brow. "Ah, I remember him. He played first violin for several years, one of the youngest men in the orchestra."

I could not help but feel a sense of disappointment he was not a pirate.

"Swedish gentleman." She sat forward as though confiding vital information in me. "Or perhaps I should say he was a Swedish louse. He was having affairs with _three_ different women. Not a rumor, complete fact. One was Simone della Costa, who was a famed soprano from Italy here for a special performance, another was Katya Kornova from Romania. She is only famous because her husband is wealthy. The third-the one who was with his child-Christianna Maria del Rio San something. She was to be the next big star on the stage, but she gave up her career for him. Now we have a new Italiana Prima Donna, one who is more spectacular than Christianna. The best in all of Paris, of course."

Monsieur Daae was so much more than a pirate; he was a hot-blooded scoundrel. The violin was treasure indeed.

"What happened to him?"

"Two of the husbands found out," she said. "The third woman was in a family way and they left Paris for Sweden last I heard. He has been gone two or three years now. I have heard Christianna wants to return to our stage, but Cathedra, our lead soprano, will hear nothing of it. I cannot say I blame her."

"You knew him well, this Daae?"

"Not as well as some women," Madeline said, her tone somewhat virulent. "His given name is Gustave. Black haired, blue eyed, very tall and broad shouldered. Women practically fell over each other any time he waltzed out of the orchestra pit," She blushed as she spoke. "He was a very good looking man and quite….virile, from what I have heard. I suppose with so many mistresses..."

Her voice trailed away as I sat speechless across from her, my eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief. The conversation was quite indecent, and to her surprise and mine I released a hearty laugh.

"He must have been the envy of every other man in the orchestra," I pointed out.

"For shame," Madeline teased. She covered her mouth and giggled to herself, and together we chuckled for quite some time.

As expected, Madeline was first to recover from our childish display. She sat up straighter and took a breath as she gave me a pointed look, which made me straighten my spine and place both feet flat on the ground.

"I have said far too much." She cleared her throat and fanned her face with her hand. "He will not return here, that is for certain. He has ruined the reputation of far too many women and the Opera House owners will have nothing more to do with him. I suppose you could keep the violin if you so desired. I'm sure he has completely forgotten it exists."

"I will learn to play it well," I vowed. "As well as the original owner."

She looked me over, her features soft and warm. Her gaze lingered just long enough on the right side of my face-the ruined side-for me to notice. I watched her closely for a grimace or sign of disgust but she did nothing more than reach across the table and place her hand over mine. For a long moment she regarded me in silence, like a mother proud of her child's new interest.

"I will not be able to pay you a visit until late tomorrow night, so you have plenty of time to practice."

Disappointment must have shown on my visage as she gave a sigh and frowned sympathetically.

"We have a special performance for a guest." Madeline explained as she stood up very straight and held her head high like a show horse. "The Queen of Spain is attending our opera along with many honored guests. We are to be presented with special awards from the queen herself."

The news surprised me, as I knew the queen was not popular. Over the months I had heard many unflattering remarks about Queen Isabella II of Spain. Undignified, unrefined, and a plain-faced sow, the gypsies called her. They spit when they spoke of her and cursed her reign simply because she was a woman in power.

Naturally I felt a kinship toward the despised Queen of Spain-and a spike of disappointment that I would not see her for myself.

"You will tell me about her visit when you return?" I asked.

Madeline nodded readily. "No detail left out," she promised.

She kissed the tips of her fingers and lightly brushed them against the left side of my face. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn I saw adoration in her gaze. Without the mask covering my scars, however, I knew there was no way she could have adored such a grotesque face.

"Good night, Erik," she said over her shoulder.

 _Good night, Mother,_ I wanted to say.

"I will see you tomorrow."


	6. Disaster Beyond Imagination

First off... if you're reading this while chapters are being posted, I have 18 written so far, which means I will update twice a week (hopefully) over the next few weeks. Secondly, THANK YOU so much for your reviews. It's nice to know if people are reading along-especially since I've been gone for so long.

Without further ado, Young Erik...

Chapter 6

For the better part of the morning I stared at the violin and could not help but think of Gustave Daae; womanizing, philandering musician and all around scoundrel. His real life was much more exciting than my made up pirate tale, which delighted me to no end.

Even so I could not decide if I should curse his name or celebrate this young Don Giovanni and his apparent exploits so lurid he was run out of Paris. I wondered where he was now and if he had been forced to leave his violin behind or if he had purposely walked away from the theater.

Truly his life-at least the details I was aware of-should have been immortalized in an opera. His sordid tale would have left women fainting in their seats, I thought to myself. No doubt the most prudish aristocrats of France would have left before the second act.

I thought of how the traveling fair had been forced out of a town in Austria once after the circus strong man had been caught cheating in a card game. They called him Eros. I was certain his name was the literal translation of strong in Hungarian and not meant as tribute to the Greek god of the same name.

Eros was billed as seven feet tall and six hundred pounds, which was an outright lie. He was a couple inches taller than me and although much heavier, he was certainly not as big as the circus barker claimed.

He was, however, strong beyond comprehension and lumbered around like a giant, his wide gait swaying back and forth, tree-like arms dangling at his sides. His thick, black mustache covered his upper lip and he shaved when he felt the need, which was quite rare. A thick carpet of hair covered his arms, chest, and back, which earned him the nickname The Hungarian Bear. He was always sweating profusely, but he never had an offensive smell. Instead he smelled like pipe smoke, which was pleasant enough for a giant.

For whatever reason, the giant Eros had taken a liking to me, and when he traveled toward the back of the circus-which was rare-I had company, food, and the protection of his presence. When Eros was near, Garouche stayed away.

On the nights he held back from the lead wagons, Eros would sit beside me in silence and smoke a pipe while I ate the rest of his supper. He would purposely walk to the fire for a second and sometimes third helping, stare down Garouche and his sons, and deliver the food to me.

"Me strong," he would say in Hungarian as he pointed his wide thumb at his chest. "You clever." His words were always accompanied by a flick of his finger against my head. I had no idea why Eros called me clever instead of a monster like everyone else, but I appreciated the compliment.

No one ever told me precisely what happened, but after three nights in the small Austrian village, Eros decided to gamble with locals. The contest ended in a brawl that spilled out of the public house and into the streets.

As long as I would live, I would never forget the blood-curdling scream of women and children as the locals poured out from seemingly every corner of the village with torches in hand. Flames engulfed the tents, thick smoke billowed into the night sky, and chaos ensued as both gypsies and Austrians ran in all directions.

I was chained to a wagon as always, caught between horses and mules in a panic and the tethered dogs frantically yelping as smoke wafted toward us. Unable to escape, I crawled beneath the wagon and called the dogs toward me. One by one I pulled off their leather collars and hoped they would run off to safety, but instead they followed me toward the horses.

The horses were spooked to the core and quite agitated, which made it impossible to safely approach them. Against my better judgement, I walked behind them and managed to untie the knots in the ropes keeping them huddled together. One by one they took flight and galloped into the darkness, the stampede of hooves shaking the ground beneath my feet.

The fight drew closer to where I was chained, the may lay far too close to avoid. I dropped to the ground and crawled on hands and knees beneath the wagon once more and hid, wide-eyed and terror stricken. Women were knocked to the ground, their screams unanswered by their husbands. Children wailed as metal clashed against metal, glass broke, and the fires continued to spread.

This is where I would die. I was sure of it. Either I would succumb to the smoke or burn alive.

Boots pounded past my hiding place and I heard a loud thump above the wagon, followed by sparks flying out around me like dying fireflies. The smoke grew thicker and I bellied halfway out only to realize the wagon itself was set aflame. Heat and smoked rolled off the burning contraption, making it nearly impossible to see or breathe.

Desperate, I tried to crawl away, but the chain shackled to my ankle had caught beneath the rear wagon wheel, which trapped me beneath the burning wood. My only choice was to crawl back beneath the wagon and around the front wheel, which gave me a bit of distance from the flames-as long as the wagon didn't disintegrate first.

The small dogs barked and lunged at the flames, and in vain I attempted to shoo them away but they refused to leave my side. Twice I attempted to yank myself free, but the chain was far too heavy and the shackle tight around my ankle.

Before I could put my plan into action and make my way beneath the wagon, Eros lumbered up beside me, his face bloody and an ax in his hand. He came to an abrupt stop and looked from me to the chain wound around the wagon. Without a word, he hefted the ax above his head and cracked the chain in two.

Awestruck, I stared up at him, my jaw slack at his inhuman strength as well as his mercy in freeing me.

"Up," he instructed in his thick Hungarian accent. He grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me to my feet. He pointed his thick finger toward the woods. "Leave here."

I scrambled to my feet and took off running, but the fight ended before I could escape the gypsies completely. Anyone else who had found dragging several feet of chain behind me would have assumed I was an escaped prisoner and I most likely would have been hanged or sent to a worse fate in an asylum, so I thought of my capture as somewhat of a blessing. Garouche's daughter, Lipa, had seen me free her horses and considered my actions somewhat heroic-or at least not worthy of being punished.

I never saw Eros after that night and wondered if he had perished or walked free. The gypsies called him a cheater and said he had nearly killed us all, but I had my doubts that Eros was fully to blame. It didn't much matter as the Hungarian Bear was not around to tell his side of the story.

I doubted Gustave Daae had left Paris in such dramatic fashion as the strong man, but I imagined he had quite the tale. Again I turned my attention to the violin and frowned.

Such a beautiful and well made violin had to belong to a refined gentleman with perhaps licentious tendencies. This work of art should not have been cast down into the cellar to be forgotten. I wondered how many performances Monsieur Daae had played this violin and if anyone was aware of the fine workmanship.

I squeezed my hands into fists and knew my novice skills were not worthy of playing such a magnificent instrument, at least not yet. I hoped to find a lesser instrument, one with which to practice.

However, since I did not have another instrument at my disposal I found other ways to occupy my day while I awaited Madeline's visit, which mostly consisted of exploring a number of crates.

Like a mountain goat on the Alps, I scaled the larger crates and delved into the rear of the cavern where there were two dressers and a bed frame propped up against a crate large enough to hold a piano. There were several mirrors as well and three armchairs covered in heavy cloths, most likely to keep them free of dust and cobwebs.

The day passed quickly as I cleared a path with the intention of creating a living space that consisted of more than a table, two wooden chairs, and a pillow and blanket on the floor.

I moved the arm chairs first and was surprised at how heavy and well made they were. At first glance I expected roughly hewn stage props, but these must have been used in an office or parlor at some point. It took a great deal of strength to move the first two, which I positioned near the table. My chest heaved, sweat pouring down my forehead as I labored alone. The third one would stay put as I figured entertaining company was highly unlikely.

The only good part of the circus was that I had grown accustomed to tearing down tents and erecting them all over again in the next town. I enjoyed the hard labor and the physical strength required to move and secure poles. I found the work strangely relaxing and an outlet for my mounting frustration. It was the only time I was treated as more of an equal than a spectacle, and being young, quite limber, and strong, I finished my work swiftly in the midday sun while the older men wheezed and mopped their brows.

Alone in the depths of the earth, I had no reason or desire to plow through my work. Gone were the threats of my father and Garouche. My wounds slowly healed and bruises faded. I came to realize there would be no more beatings or forced performances, no crowds gathered to gawk at my ruined face or scream in terror when I moved about the cage.

I was safe as long as I remained here-and I intended to remain as long as possible. Most of my childhood I had spent attempting to escape a cellar and now I wanted nothing more than to remain unseen underground.

At least this is what I told myself.

Once I rolled out a beautiful Persian rug and dragged a small table and a matching pair of candelabras out from the furthest corner of the heap, I decided to rest a while and read one of the many books I had discovered. It seemed like a gentlemanly activity to relax in an overstuffed armchair with my blanket draped over my legs and read. The only thing I appeared to be missing was tea and perhaps biscuits.

My stomach growled the moment I sat in one of the dark green chairs. I glanced at my pocket watch and discovered it was a few minutes past four. Although Madeline hadn't given a time of arrival, I suspected it would still be hours before I saw her.

As I rummaged through my food supply I wondered what they were performing for the Queen of Spain. There would most likely be a large banquet with drinks and dancing. Madeline had mentioned an award presented by the Queen herself.

I glanced toward the door. Perhaps I could hear a bit of the performance if I ventured into the upper levels. Surely if I stayed to the third cellar no one would notice me. The second cellar would be a risk, but with royalty attending the performance I suspected no one would be in the cellars. Perhaps I could even stand behind the closed door at the top of the stairs and listen to the commotion within the Opera House as they passed from the stage through the halls to the dining room.

I tapped my finger impatiently on the table as I ate a pear and considered my options. Most assuredly I would never have the opportunity to see royalty again, even if she was an undignified, unrefined, plain-faced sow.

My heart raced as I ventured closer to the door and pulled it open just enough to feel a _woosh_ of cool air against my face. For a moment I thought I heard footsteps, but it was the tap of water dripping in the darkness.

I took a step out of the cellar and felt along the wall for the railing leading up the stairway. My toes curled against the cold, smooth stone and I held my breath as I pulled on my boots and ventured into the hall.

It was darker than I imagined, pitch black as far as the eye could see. The walls were cold and slick with moisture, and I shuddered as my fingers touched the unknown darkness. _Please do not be earthy creatures_. Insects had never bothered me before, but in total blackness I didn't know what was within reach.

Somehow I reached the third cellar without turning back. I stood pressed against the stairway, hand reaching out in front of me for the door leading into the second cellar. I swore once I reached the second cellar I would go no further. There was too much risk involved and I was far too great a coward to chance being caught.

The sound of trickling water turned much louder and more distinct from the second cellar and I was certain there was an underground waterfall somewhere. I did not hear it on the way down with Madeline, although in those moments of sheer panic I hadn't noticed anything but her hand in mind.

Slowly I became more comfortable climbing the stairs, and before I knew it I saw a sliver of light outlining a doorway and realized I had reached the main floor of the Opera House.

I would have turned back if not for the sound of music echoing faintly in the distance. Body pressed to the wall, I stood and listened to the performance. Someone walked past the doorway, a man cursing under his breath. I gripped the railing as though this would somehow keep me from being seen if he were to open the door. Once he was gone, I sank to the ground and sat on the uneven stairs.

An hour may have passed. After every song there was applause, usually followed by brief moments of silence before the orchestra played and the stage performers sang. Eventually there was loud applause for several minutes and I heard voices yell _Brava! Encore! Perfecto!_

The performance had come to an end, and within minutes the sliver of light beneath the doorway seemed to blink as people rushed past. The performers must have passed by the cellars on the way to their dressing rooms or to meet with the Queen. The sound of the orchestra was quickly replaced with people shouting and the rumble of carts. Seconds after the carts rolled past I smelled roast and fresh bread.

I imagined a great feast was about to be served for the Queen.

"Majesty, majesty!" I heard a young woman shriek.

I ducked down lower in hopes I would see her royal feet sweep across the floor.

Several people walked by at once, and I swore I saw jeweled shoes and a long train.

If I stayed a moment longer I feared someone would open the door and I would be caught. Like a rat I started to slink away, but I was no rat. I was a clumsy, disoriented boy who lost his footing in the unfamiliar darkness. I stumbled and reached for the railing, but my fingers slid against the wet stone walls and before I knew what was happening, my feet were out from beneath me. I fell hard down the stairs, tumbled sideways with my arms splayed and legs out.

I had no idea how many steps I tumbled down or precisely when I hit my head, but a warm trickle down the side of my face and the coppery scent of blood made me well aware that my curiosity had led to my demise.

I blinked in the darkness, unsure of what was up or down. Afraid to move, I lay with my face against the ground and sucked in a breath. Cobwebs and debris covered every exposed inch of flesh.

This was how I would die. I would bleed to death on the stairs in darkness.

Minutes passed, perhaps even an hour. The initial adrenaline wore off and my body ached from the fall. My knees and shins throbbed, my shoulders both hurt when I sat upright. Somehow I needed to gather my wits about me and return to the fifth cellar.

Before I had moved an inch, the latch on the door flipped, the sliver of light widened, and a figure stood at the top of the stairs peering down.

I had been discovered.


	7. Madeline's Brother

Thank you again for all of the reviews! It means a lot to know you're reading.

Chapter 7

The door shut as quickly as it had opened and I wasn't immediately aware if I had been noticed. My head pounded, my shoulders and ribs throbbed, and I was not certain I could stand much less move.

My injuries, I assumed, were life-threatening, which heightened my sense of panic. My heart thudded, chest heaved as I laid wide-eyed in the cellar, unsure of precisely how far I had fallen.

With a stifled groan I straightened my legs and felt from my knees, which had started to swell, to my shins and at last my ankles. I felt along my rib cage, collar bones, and at last my head where my hair was damp and sticky with blood. I winced as I felt along my hairline and located the wound. Given how far I had tumbled, I suspected the injury was quite deep.

I wasn't certain if it was the loss of blood or the darkness, but I felt disoriented, the sensation similar to being underwater with my eyes closed. Afraid I would lose consciousness I forced myself to sit upright and take several deep breaths.

Once I regained my composure, I blindly searched for the railing. After several moments, I realized the overall pain wasn't nearly as bad as I had first thought, which I hoped meant I had not broken any bones.

I gripped the metal bar with both hands and hoisted myself up in order to test my legs. In the absolute darkness I felt as though I stood on a tightrope, my knees locked and hands like a vice around the metal bar. I feared one more misstep would truly cost me my life.

Despite my overall pain and panic, I imagined how disappointed Madeline would be if she discovered me sprawled out on the stairs-or worse yet how alarmed she would feel if someone else found me first. In silence I vowed I would not reveal her name if I was taken into custody and questioned, no matter the amount of torture. If Madeline were to tell the gendarmes she had aided me in any way I would tell them I forced her into being my accomplice.

Somehow I managed to reach the bottom of the first set of stairs, which was likely six steps at best. Seventy-five stairs in total, Madeline had warned me. Only sixty more to go before I was back to the fifth cellar. The feat seemed truly impossible as I stood against the wall shaking and cursing myself.

More voices filled the hall on the opposite side of the door and I froze on the landing between sets of stairs, resigned to my fate. I had sense enough to realize I could not flee, and with no other option, I took a deep, shuddering breath, and sat once more on the cold, damp ground like a fawn unable to outrun the wolf.

The door opened again, and this time a lantern illuminated the hallway and spread out before me. In the back of my mind I saw my father's silhouette in the lamp light, bigger than the giant Eros and meaner than the devil himself. Sheer terror pinned me to the wall.

Footsteps padded carefully down the stairs and I watched wide-eyed in horror as the figure neared. My legs straightened and I sat sprawled across the landing. Despite being on the ground, I still felt as though I were in an endless fall.

Madeline nearly fell over me as she turned the corner. She managed to leap over my outstretched legs and land, graceful as a cat, before me.

"God in Heaven," she muttered. "What in the name of the Holy Mother are you doing up here?"

Her tone was tight, which I deserved, but her expression was filled with alarm. She held up the lantern shoulder high and gasped once she saw my bloodied face. Based on her alarm, I suspected my injuries were as bad as I felt.

"You will bleed to death," she squeaked. Emotion filled her voice as she crouched beside me.

"I know."

"You know?" she asked incredulously.

If I did not die on the stairs, I was certain she would kill me.

"Leave me," I groaned.

Madeline set the lantern down next to my outstretched leg and placed one hand against the right side of my face and the other on the left side of my head. With her palm against the scars, my back arched and body stiffened.

"Madeline," I gasped. "Please, do not-"

"Be still," she snapped. Her hardened gaze briefly met my wide eyes, but she ignored my panic. Her fingers searched along my hairline and temple and I winced as she pressed into the laceration on the side of my head.

"Leave you? Do you honestly believe I can leave you like this? Foolish boy," she said through her teeth. "Doing foolish things. Did you drop your candle?"

"I did not bring one."

She frowned at me and ast last removed her hand from my face, for which I was grateful. "You walked all the way up the stairs in the dark?"

I nodded. Now that she said it aloud it seemed extremely foolish.

"Why?"

"I wanted to hear the performance."

My answer was innocent enough for her liking. She pushed my hair back from my face and squinted. I sat motionless while she examined my mortal wound. Again her fingers brushed along the scars and I inhaled sharply on her behalf, afraid she would suddenly realize her folly in touching such ruined flesh.

"You could have killed yourself." She poked me in the shoulder and left blood stained on my shirt. "Then what would you have done?"

Another rhetorical question on her part, but nonetheless I shrugged. There would have been nothing more to do if I had died, but I didn't say a word.

Madeline shook her head. "Lucky for you it appears to be a very shallow wound. Not one likely to be the death of you-or me." She narrowed her eyes and I looked away, ashamed of how I had worried her. "My goodness, you gave me a fright."

"That was not my intention."

"Stand up," she commanded. "You must return to the fifth cellar at once. Can you make your way down alone if you take this lantern?"

My head pounded, but now that I could see the stairs I felt slightly more confident in my ability to navigate. I nodded in silence, afraid to further disappoint her, and climbed to my feet.

Madeline sighed heavily. "You are fortunate no one else saw you. Now go, go back where you are safe and wait for me. I will come to see you as soon as I am able."

At once she scurried up the stairs and disappeared from sight.

By the time I managed to make my way to the fifth cellar I felt quite sorry for myself and the ordeal that was entirely my doing. I stared at my gruesome, reflection in a small, oval mirror I kept in a small crate under the table. There was a knot the size of a goose egg nearly in the center of my forehead, which was not nearly as concerning as the split just above my temple. Blood had dried in long, jagged trails down my face and splattered along my jaw and neck. With trembling hands, I removed my blood-soaked shirt and washed my hair in the lake.

Once the wound was clean, I examined my head in the mirror again and saw for myself that the cut was not deep. With the salve and one of the bandages Madeline had left from wrapping my arm, I slathered the wound in ointment and dressed it myself.

My watch had stopped, which meant I had no idea how long I had been gone or what time of day it was now that I had returned to my underground abode. To me it had felt like half the day had passed. Then again, I had been certain I would die and that was clearly not the case.

Nearly every inch of my body seemed to ache now that I had made it down to the last cellar. I made my way through the stacks of crates and furniture and pulled back the cloth on a large oval mirror.

Without a second thought I stripped off my clothes and left them in a heap on an armchair and stared at my reflection.

A sullen monster stared back, bloody headed and bruised. I raised my right hand and covered the scars on my face with my outstretched fingers, but it did not make as much of a difference as I had hoped.

My hair was thin and missing in large clumps. For months it had fallen out quite easily and left me with bald patches, particularly along the back of my head. I ran my fingers along the base of my skull, through tangles of almost shoulder length hair, and attempted to comb it out as best I could.

I examined the fresh bruises along my rib cage, left shoulder, and both knees and shins. My right wrist was swollen, but as I rotated the joint I felt little discomfort.

Gaunt was the first word that came to mind as I took inventory of my wounds and overall appearance. My hip bones and ribs protruded, my eyes somewhat sunken in. Never before had I seen my full reflection and now that I seen it, I was devastated. Garouche had been correct in calling me _The Living Corpse._

What a vile creature, I said to myself, barely human and hardly passable as a man. I wished I had died in Austria on the night Eros disappeared or beneath the cellar stairs in my parents' home. I wished Madeline had turned me over to the gendarmes. I wished to lay beneath the ground beside my uncle...and yet I feared what was beyond this life. Something much worse, I suspected, waited for me in eternity.

 _You are not at fault._

My uncle's words rang louder than my own self deprecating thoughts.

 _You were born with the scars on your face. Your father is a heavy-handed drunk and your mother too consumed by her own demons to give you a second thought. You must find value in yourself, not wait for others to find it._

The tears fell fast and hot down my cheeks, and I made no attempt to wipe them away. I considered the words he had spoken to me almost a year ago. On the outside there was nothing of value, at least not that I could see. I wanted desperately to curl up in my own self loathing and pity, but again I thought of his words.

My uncle was partially wrong as it was my fault that I had ventured up the stairs and fallen. It was my fault that I had strangled Garouche and placed a burden on Madeline. He of course did not know the current circumstances.

 _You are impossible._

Those were, however, not my uncle's words but Madeline's.

I scrambled to dress myself before she found me naked and standing in front of a mirror like a crude pervert. Unfortunately, in my haste of stepping into my trousers I managed to knock over a coat rack and a smaller mirror, which crashed onto the floor but by the grace of God didn't shatter. I landed with a thud beside both items.

"Erik?" Madeline called. "Are you back there?"

She appeared suddenly over me as I lay on my back. Her gaze flickered from me to the mirror and back again. Her face looked more angular with her hair pulled into a tight bun, her lips a straight line of frustration. Her light eyes, however, displayed warmth and sympathy when I expected fury.

"How is your head?"

"It hurts," I said as I averted my gaze and wiped my swollen eyes.

"I certainly would expect as much." Her tone was more stern than I had grown accustomed to in our brief time knowing one another, her face somewhat drawn when I risked a glance.

I didn't know how to respond to her. Whenever Garouche snapped at me I fell silent, which seemed to shorten his temper. If I dared to meet his eye or utter a single word, he seemed to strike my harder. I had yet to see Madeline lose her temper and I prayed I never would.

She tapped her fingers against her hip and looked around the piles of crates and refuse. I realized she was still dressed for the ballet right down to her ivory tutu and satin slippers.

"You should be on the stage," I blurted out.

"The show has ended. They are eating now."

"You are not with them."

Madeline appeared annoyed by statement. "No, I am not."

I had no idea what to do or say to staunch the proverbial bleeding. I stared at the leg of the nearby chair where my shirt and sweater were still balled up.

Dreadful moments of silence passed. Madeline continued to look around at the crates and ignored my presence completely, which made it impossible for me to gauge her feelings. After what felt like an eternity I realized I would have rather she yelled or slapped me clear across the face as opposed to outright ignoring me.

With an exaggerated sigh she turned on her heel and marched out of the narrow pathway I had created, and the angry ballerina all but disappeared. I started to reach for my shirt and sweater when she stormed back toward me. Pure instinct took over and I shrank away, my heart in my throat as I awaited punishment at last.

"You could have gotten yourself killed," she said between her teeth. She snatched the shirt from the chair and looked it over, her bottom lip quivering. Once she held it up, I noticed the substantial amount of blood covering the fabric. "You realize that, don't you?"

To my surprise the conversation was not over. Indeed, it had hardly begun. I lowered my gaze and clutched the woolen sweater in my fists. She had no idea how much I desired to no longer live, and yet feared my own demise. I was not sure what to think or feel.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

I considered asking her what she wanted me to say, but kept quiet a moment longer. A moment or two stretched into eternity and I resorted to saying nothing at all. Nearly every encounter with my father and Garouche had ended in this manner. Eventually they would storm off and I could catch my breath and take inventory of my injuries.

"You have nothing to say then?" Madeline asked, her voice trembling with either emotion or pure rage.

Somehow my respectful silence had made the situation exponentially worse, which I had not anticipated.

"I do not know what to say to regain your favor," I said at last. My voice shook as well, the result of emotions I could never control. Her anger confused me as she seemed to be upset that I had injured myself and that I could have been caught and yet I couldn't comprehend why she cared so greatly.

Without warning, she threw her hands up in the air and instinctively I closed my eyes and turned my head. My fingers curled into fists, my body stiff as I braced for the impact. This was familiar to me, familiar and yet dreaded. I held my breath and felt my skin prickle in anticipation. Whether she struck me once across the face or a dozen times, I would not move or offer any protest.

It came as a surprise when she did not strike me, which I felt I more than deserved for the inconvenience I had caused. After several seconds I gazed up at her and found anger replaced by sorrow.

"Oh, Erik," she said under her breath. Tears flooded her light eyes as she bent at the waist and shook her head in dismay. "I had no intention of hitting you."

"You are in the minority then."

Madeline shifted her weight and motioned for me to stand. "Are you still in one piece?" she asked. "Or should I go up the stairs and look for parts of you scattered about?"

Her words, though spoken lightly, did nothing to ease my sullen mood.

"One piece." I struggled to my feet and finished dressing while Madeline navigated her way out of the mess. With a great deal of hesitation, I joined her near the table and discovered she had brought me more food. Despite my actions, she still cared for me.

"Bruised?"

"Considerably."

"Nothing broken?"

I shook my head even though she wasn't looking in my direction. "It does not seem so."

"Do you have much of a headache?"

Without thinking I reached up and touched my bandaged skull. "I would rather not have my head attached to my neck at the moment."

Madeline grunted. "I imagine you will feel that way another day or so." She motioned toward the chairs and rug I had set up into a parlor of sort. "I see you kept yourself occupied for part of the time I was away. It looks very nice."

I ignored her compliment, feeling utterly unworthy of praise considering how the evening had gone thus far. "There is more still to do."

"You should wait a few days before you continue moving furniture. Allow yourself an opportunity to heal."

There was still something quite stilted by the way she spoke to me. I lingered near where she stood and placed my hands on the back of the armchair, unsure of whether or not I should come closer.

"I forgot to bring you supper, but I did bring you a few apples to tide you over until I return," she said absently as she continued to search the cavern.

"You left plenty the last time," I replied.

Madeline didn't respond. My brow furrowed, the distance between us strange and uncomfortable. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she wrung her hands and swallowed hard.

"You are still upset with me," I said.

Lips pursed, she shook her head. I heard her choke back a sob, which garnered my full attention.

"I am not upset with you," she said through her tears. "Concerned for your well-being, but not angry with you."

"You appear upset," I said.

My words triggered a sudden onslaught of emotion. I stood within arm's reach of her as she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled, slender back hunched as she wept. My lips parted, but I could not find suitable words to offer comfort.

In silence I moved beside her and placed my hand on her arm, but my gesture only made her sob harder. Alarmed, I pulled away, but to my surprise she grabbed a fistful of my sweater and buried her face against my shoulder.

The unexpectedly intimacy paralyzed me. I stood with my arms straight at my side and hands in fists, deathly afraid of upsetting her further. In such close proximity I noticed she smelled sweet, like strawberries, and there was glitter in her hair and the shell of her ear.

I swallowed hard and placed my left hand between her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her as best I could. Eyes closed, I felt her hot breaths against my chest as well as the way her body seemed to rattle against mine.

Her sobs were comprised of mostly deep, shuddering breaths that reminded me of my mother. I distinctly recalled the sound of her weeping for hours on end, sometimes with such force the floorboards shook beneath her chair. Unwanted and helpless, I stood in the cellar beneath her and merely listened, haunted by her despair.

So many nights I wondered if she would have allowed me to embrace her just once if I could have provided a shred of comfort. Despite her indifference toward me, I would have done anything to see her smile kindly in my direction or call me by my name.

Without a word I placed my arms around Madeline, gently at first as I feared she would break away from me. Instead she leaned harder against my chest, and as I looked down at her, I caught a glimpse of her features twisted in grief.

"What has upset you?" I asked at last.

"My brother," she sniffled. At last she released my sweater, stepped back and wiped her eyes with her closed fist. "My parents sent a telegram during the performance. He was shot in a duel."

I felt as though my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. "Is he wounded badly?"

Her lip began to quiver again. "Mortally, they think."

I blinked. "When did this happen?"

"Today at dawn." Her features crumpled again. "I do not know if he is still alive."

"Will you travel to London?"

"Only for a funeral."

Her words gave me pause. Goose flesh rose along my arms and I clenched my fists as I thought of how I had not only watched my uncle die, but had single-handedly buried his body. I could still feel the dirt beneath my fingernails and the blisters to my hands as I dug his shallow grave. How I had wept for him, how every pour seemed to hurt as I covered his body and said my final good-bye. His death was still the most painful event I had experienced. While cuts and bruises healed, the pain I carried deep inside was always raw. It was the wound that would never heal, and hearing Madeline speak seemed to open it wider than before.

"You should not have come down here," I said, consumed by grief and guilt. "You should be awaiting their response."

"I know, but I was worried about you."

"I am fine."

"You are not." She frowned, her bottom lip quivering. "You are anything but fine."

"Madeline, I have survived worse and I have done so alone for as long as I could recall. You need not look after me."

She nodded at last and wiped her eyes again. "You should know I do not find comfort in your suffering."

"I know," I responded. "You are one of the few."

Madeline took one last look around and promised she would bring additional supplies if she was unexpectedly called away to England. As much as I attempted to tell her it was unnecessary, she would not listen to reasoning.

"I hope to see you tomorrow," I said to her. As much as I wanted her to go to her family, I still did not want her to leave me. Temporary, I told myself, her absence would only be temporary.

She pursed her lips briefly. "Thank you. I hope to see you as well."

She slipped out the doorway, and before I closed it completely, I heard one final wail of despair that sent a shiver down my spine and pricked my eyes with tears. How I wished I could have done more to ease her pain in the greatest hour of need.


	8. Apollo's Rooftop

Please tell me if you're reading and where you're from. I'm Gabrina, and I live near Chicago.

Also, because after some 13 years on this site I still have to screw up formatting here and there, this chapter is spaced weird. I can't seem to correct it without going line by line, so... I'm sorry if it's distracting! Please let me know what you think of this chapter.

Chapter 8

Madeline's departure left me restless and uneasy. I longed to be of greater assistance to her, but confined to the cellar there was nothing for me to do. Frustrated, I paced the floor and cursed myself for not winding my watch as now I had no concept of time.

Her last sobs still haunted me long after she returned to the upper level of the Opera House, and I grappled with resurfacing images of my uncle in his final moments of life and subsequent burial. Weeks after he had passed I struggled with the thought of whether he had actually perished or if I had buried him alive. My chest would ache, my hands and feet numb at the thought of him waking beneath the earth and suffocating. Perhaps I had not buried him alive, but I knew without a doubt I had caused his death. Every moment of every day I considered his last weeks and what I should have done different to keep him alive.

Eventually my knees ached and shins burned from the deep bruises, which forced me to hobble into the nearest armchair and rest my fatigued legs. I stared at the ripples in the lake, my grief becoming catatonic.

At some point I dozed off as the door creaking open woke me with a start.

"Is he alive?" I blurted out in a half-sleep as I shot out of the chair. Pain splintered up my shins and I cursed under my breath.

"Thomas has survived, by the grace of God and endless prayers." Madeline beamed in her light blue skirt and matching ribbon in her hair. Her cream colored blouse made her features seem more rosy, and red lipstick made her mouth wider. "The duel did not take place in London, so the information relayed by my mother and father was incorrect."

"Was he shot?"

"He was." She exhaled heavily. "My father said the bullet hit him in the hip and passed through his leg by his knee. Originally they thought he was shot in the stomach."

"What of the other person?"

Madeline rolled her eyes. "Thomas is a terrible shot. His sworn enemy was unscathed and luckily for Thomas the other gentleman helped stop the bleeding until a physician arrived."

"They are both fortunate."

"They are both fools," Madeline corrected.

"Do you know what caused the disagreement?"

"No idea. My best guess would be a woman." She sighed and shook her head.

"Is he expected to survive?" I hated asking the question in such uncouth fashion, but I had no idea if such a wound was considered mortal, and judging by her mood I hoped her brother would make a good recovery.

"The next few days are crucial." Her visage darkened. "But for now he is speaking and seems in good spirits."

I nodded, unsure of how to respond. My uncle had not seemed so terribly ill until he was down to his last day and then the manner in which his health seemed to plummet was well beyond my comprehension. I feared for Madeline's brother despite knowing nothing of him other than his name.

"I do apologize for not paying a visit yesterday. I was exhausted from the correspondence with my parents," Madeline said.

I held up my watch. "I forgot to wind it," I said sheepishly. "I did not know how much time had passed."

Madeline seemed more amused than annoyed. "It's ten-thirty in the morning. I have tea, croissants, and the most delicious strawberry preserves you've ever tasted."

She seemed to be under the impression that every bit of food she delivered to me was the best I had ever tasted and she was not wrong.

Her usual warm demeanor had returned, and as I set my watch, she arranged breakfast and insisted upon checking my wounds once we finished eating.

"Your face is quite ashen," Madeline commented. "You feel worse today?"

"I feel no better," I offered. I did not tell her I had spent hours pacing the length of the cellar.

Madeline eyed me curiously, which made me self-conscious. "Perhaps a bit of pain medicine is in order to take the edge off."

She pulled apart one of the golden, flaky croissants and slathered it in a generous spoonful of preserves before handing it to me.

"Some people do become reliant, so you will have to be very careful with taking laudanum," she warned.

I had never taken pain medication, although I had seen both men and women who were addicted to the tincture. The first, which I had not known at the time, was my own mother. It wasn't until long after I had been removed my parents house that I realized the dark green bottle with the pink label kept her perpetually in a placid state. When she was without the magical potion, she alternated between weeping and screaming as she rocked with her bible pressed to her chest. Her cries dug into my soul while her fits of anger terrified me. Possessed, my father would say to her, filled with the devil's seed.

Given my father's fondness for alcohol and my mother's dependence on opium, I had reservations about taking anything for my injuries. Truthfully I knew deep inside nothing would truly quell the pain I felt.

"I do not think laudenum will be necessary," I said.

To my surprise, Madeline did not push the issue further. We finished eating and she gathered the plates as always.

I watched in silence, dreading her departure and the loneliness that followed. She met my eye briefly and looked me over thoughtfully.

"Do you know will make you feel better?" Madeline asked. This time I realized the question was rhetorical. "Fresh air."

I stared up at her. Fresh air would require leaving the cellar, and the opportunity of a change of scenery excited me.

"Of course this will require much more than five flights of stairs."

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To visit Apollo." Madeline offered a wide grin. "There is a most impressive statue on the rooftop."

"Now?" My excitement was beyond containment and I stood, fully prepared to follow her anywhere.

She shook her head. "When you are healed."

Ironic, I thought to myself, to meet this god of healing and sunlight after I sat alone in darkness waiting for my bruises to fade.

Madeline recognized my disappointment and reached into her bag. "Here," she said as she handed me several small chocolates. "My favorite pain medication."

"When will you return then?" I asked, the weight of her pending departure already weighing upon me.

"Soon," she promised. "There are no rehearsals today following the big performance yesterday, so I will gather clean bandages for your arm and head and perhaps something more to pass the time. Do you enjoy puzzles?"

"I've never had one."

"Then I will bring you one my uncle gave to me. It came all the way from the Orient," she said, keeping her voice low as though there was a chance we would be overheard.

I helped her with the heavy basket of dishes and made one last attempt to keep her a moment longer.

"What was she like?"

"Who?"

"The Queen of Spain."

Madeline chuckled to herself. "Tragically dull."

Nearly a week passed before Madeline decided I was well enough to leave the fifth cellar, and by that time I had designed my own cozy, lakeside abode.

I moved from a blanket and pillow on the floor to a natural alcove with a chest of drawers, silver candle holders, luxurious wool throws, and the apex of finds thus far: a bed.

Wedged between the chest of drawers and the wall I stumbled upon a straw mattress to fit the bed frame I had seen previously. Unfortunately the bed frame had one leg slightly longer than the other three, which I assumed was the reason it had been discarded. With the tools I had found, I measured and sawed off the extra wood to even out the frame.

At the age of thirteen, I felt one simple carpentry project was the equivalent of building the Parthenon. I could not have been more satisfied or proud of my work. With each passing day, the barren cave became more of a home than a space meant for storage, and soon enough I felt quite at home.

Madeline gave a nod of approval when she returned one evening with supper and a large canvas bag filled with clothing. A mule could not have carried the load Madeline managed to navigate down five flights of stairs, and I marveled at the strength of such a slight woman.

"What is in the bag?" I asked.

She returned a devilish smile. "A disguise, amongst other things."

Her words intrigued me. "For the rooftop?" I asked quite eagerly.

While I toiled for hours designing my lakeside home I fantasized about the rooftop and the statue of Apollo. In my mind the statue was made of marble and sixty feet tall. I imagined doves perched on his outstretched arms and the commanding stare on his chiseled face.

I could not wait to meet this god overlooking Paris.

"For the rooftop," Madeline confirmed as she reached into the canvas bag and held out a dark brown folded garment. "A cloak with a deep hood."

She unfurled the cloak and I reveled at the length and weight of the material. The outside was wool, the cream colored lining made of silk.

"Where did it come from?" I asked. "This must have cost a fortune."

"I'm sure it cost more than I earn in a year, but a patron left it behind last winter and it's been unclaimed and in storage ever since. I thought it could be put to use once more." She dug into the inner pocket. "There are even gloves."

I slipped the gloves on first and flexed my hands inside the supple leather. Immediately I felt as though I had gone from pauper to prince.

"Your cloak, Monsieur," Madeline said.

She draped the material over my shoulders and fastened the silver clasp at my throat before taking a step back. I waited for her nod of approval, but her smile fell and brow furrowed.

Immediately I felt self-conscious and reached for the clasp. I had every intention of returning the cloak, but Madeline pushed my hand away and grunted to show her disapproval. "You are so thin still, but another week or two of eating well and you'll see it fits better." She looked me up and down again and smiled. "Already you look much healthier than the day you arrived. You are gaining weight and strength."

Her compliments reaffirmed my thoughts when I had dared to look at my own reflection in the mirror that morning. The bruises had turned from dark blue to a yellow tint, which I expected, however my ribs and hips no longer appeared as pronounced. My face was more round than angular, and my arms and legs showed more muscle tone. The monster slowly retracted, and in its place I saw a young man staring back from the mirror.

"If we hurry, we should arrive on the rooftop before the sun sets," Madeline explained.

"What if we are seen?"

"There are many different halls and stairways, some of which only servants use." She rolled onto the balls of her feet and rocked back on her heels. "The theater managers are not in on Sundays and neither are the servants."

"The stairways will be empty," I said.

Madeline nodded.

A secret passageway to the rooftop certainly seemed enticing enough, and as Madeline took up her lantern and handed me the basket of dishes to return to the scullery, I felt electricity in my veins.

We trudged up the stairs in near silence, pausing only when we reached the main level of the theater.

"Wait here," Madeline said as she took the basket from me and left the lantern turned down at my feet.

Impatiently I did as requested and waited for her to return. I heard her shoes click against the smooth flooring, which faded after a minute or so. Once I heard the faint clatter of dishes down the hall and return of footsteps, I reached for the door handle, but snatched my hand away when I heard a husky voice.

"Aye, what do we have here 'lone in the halls?"

Madeline did not readily answer, which made me wonder if there was someone else nearby being addressed by this man.

"Whatsa matter, sweetheart? Cannot spare a word?"

"Joseph." Madeline exhaled sharply.

"Aye, she knows my name."

"You have the same name as my brother."

The man grunted. "I do hope you ain't thinkin' of him when I come up behind you and have my way."

His words sent fire through my veins. I grit my teeth and balled my hand into a fist. One more word out of his crude mouth and I would kill him with my bare hands.

I leaned forward and peered out the crack in the door in time to see the man reach between her legs. Before he could grab her, Madeline slap the bastard clear across the face, which sent him reeling back.

"Not another word, Bouquet," Madeline said between her teeth. She stood rigid, her eyes trained on him in a cold glare, her finger pointed in his fleshy face. "And if you should ever so much as think of laying your hand on me, I will kick your balls into your throat."

The man was short, fat, and bearded with small eyes and greasy hair. I could not tell his age, though I suspected he was not much older than Madeline. I watched in silence as he rubbed his face and sneered at Madeline before he licked the corner of his mouth and slinked away.

"You best watch yourself," he said over his shoulder before a door slammed and signaled his departure.

I wrenched the door open with every intention of stalking after the insolent fool, but Madeline pushed against my chest with both hands. "Erik, no," she whispered frantically. "It's not worth it."

She was incorrect. I would have died to defend her honor. I would have done anything to protect her from Bouquet or any other man to threaten her.

Rage shook me to the core. I glared down the hallway, willing the bastard to return, but he had disappeared. The only trace of him was the billowing stench of alcohol, and the smell infuriated me.

"Stop," Madeline warned. She dug her heels into the ground and strained to keep me from following Bouquet. "He is , please, you'll knock me to the ground."

Her words snapped me from my red hot vexation and I took a step back once I realized I had nearly pushed Madeline into the wall. She appeared taken aback by my strength, and as she crouched to retrieve the lantern, I noticed she kept her gaze trained cautiously on me.

"Did I harm you?" I asked.

She shook her head, gaze lowered. "No, of course not."

"But I frightened you?"

Madeline hesitated. "Yes."

It was my turn to lower my gaze. "Who is he?" I asked. My heart still raced, the desire to rip his head from his shoulders still thrumming through my veins. The rush of anger thrummed through my veins, a familiar sensation that was quick to overtake my senses and slow to leave.

"Joseph Bouquet. A stagehand." Madeline glanced in both directions and then nodded for me to follow her to a doorway directly across from the cellars. "A worthless one at that, however, he is related to the owner of the theater by marriage, which is the only reason he is still employed."

"Does he bother you often?"

Madeline paused and gathered her skirts at the bottom of the first set of spiraling stairs. "He prefers much easier dancers."

I considered her words as we climbed the first set of stairs. They were much different than the stairways leading into the cellars. The hallway itself was much more narrow and considerably warmer while the stairs were made of wood rather than stone.

"What does he do the other dancers?" I persisted.

"He does not think we are aware, but he leers at the dancers through a hole in the dressing room wall. We plug as man as we find, but there are always more, particularly near the girls who are…" She looked briefly at me. "Looking to advance their careers in whatever way possible. He cons them into his bed and is the first to cast them out if there are...consequences to their relationship."

I had seen men like him before. While I was considered a monster for my appearance, the real monsters from the depths of hell stalked their prey in broad daylight.

"He has done this to you before? Grabbed you...in such a manner?" I paused and saw Madeline's cheeks turn crimson.

"Not for a very long time."

Fire raged through my veins at the thought of that drunken fool speaking to Madeline let alone what he had attempted in the hall. "If he should dare lay a hand on you-"

"I would rather not waste another minute speaking of him," Madeline said. "Please, Erik, not another word. I would sooner forget him."

Despite her wishes to forget his actions, Joseph Bouquet was burned into my mind. I wanted nothing more than to break every bone in his body, and if he dared look at Madeline in a way I found unacceptable, I would not think twice and kill him.

Before I could say another word, Madeline pushed open a door and I squinted as we were met with blinding sunlight. The shock from darkness to light disoriented me briefly and I turned my face away. Once my eyes adjusted, I followed her onto the rooftop and gawked in awe of our surroundings.

Never in my life had I seen such beauty. There was a small, overgrown garden of intoxicating roses, lavender, and freesia as well as a stone bench strangled by creeping ivy.

I watched as she untied the string at her throat and gracefully removed her cloak. The fabric was much lighter than mine both in color and weight and floated on the breeze before she draped it over the stone bench.

Beneath her cloak she wore a long purple dress with a light green sash that matched the ribbon in her hair.

To my surprise Madeline stepped to the very edge of the building and and jumped on the ledge, her arms outstretched for balance. In the fading light of day she looked every part a dancer, fingers and toes gracefully pointed.

Her daring move threatened to stop my heart and I raced to her side only to discover the ledge was much wider than I had expected.

"I thought you would fall," I said once my heart was no longer seemingly lodged in my throat.

"Never," she said with a chuckle.

I watched her in silence for a moment, appreciating her grace. It reminded me of Garouche's daughter, Lipa, and her act in the traveling fair where she stood upon white horses barefoot and rode them around while switching from one foot to the other and eventually to a handstand. With her olive skin tone and white hair, she looked like some sort of ethereal being sent to entertain mortals.

"This is one of my favorite spots in all of Paris and no one else seems to know it even exists," Madeline said, which startled me from my thoughts. She smiled, and the setting sun cast a golden hue on her oval face. "More for me, I suppose."

I hopped up beside her and surveyed the city from our daring vantage point. The wind caught the end of my cloak and it flapped around my ankles like the wings of a giant bird. When I glanced at Madeline, she returned a smile.

The weight of the world faded away. Atop the Opera House, I felt like a captain at the bow of a mighty ship waiting to conquer and claim everything at my feet.

"Do you like it?" Madeline asked as she brushed long, dark tendrils of hair from her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her movements graceful and lively.

I nodded and inhaled deeply. "Very much so. I had not realized how much I missed the sunlight and the smell of fresh air."

"And coffee," she said as she pointed to the streets below. "The best cafes in all the world are on this very street. Tomorrow morning I will bring you some."

"I would like that," I replied despite having never drank coffee.

Madeline turned away from the sunlight and gave a dramatic, deep curtsy. I followed her gaze to the opporiste end of the rooftop. "And there is the god of music, healing, and sunlight."

The vision in my mind did not do justice to the actual statue. I hopped down from the ledge and toward the pristine image of Apollo standing guard over the Opera House.

He stood very tall-and very naked-over Paris on a rooftop dome that reminded me of a crown. The statue itself was made of bronze, the lyre held in his large hands above his head painted gold. On both sides were seated female figures.

"Poetry and music," Madeline said before I could ask what they represented.

"He is very…" Well-endowed, I wanted to say.

Madeline feigned a sound of disgust as though she knew my thoughts. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Indeed he is," she said with a snort. "The artist was quite generous."

When she met my eye I could not help but double over with laughter. It was the first time in my life I recalled showing such unabashed mirth, and as our voices carried across the evening sky, I drank in the deep blue of the sky behind Apollo and the blaze of pinks, orange, and yellow as the sun set and gave way to the moon. I had forgotten what it felt like to watch the day disappear before my eyes, how slow and easy the light submitted to darkness.

The streets below slowly illuminated with lamp light. Carriage horses clip-clopped past in different directions, the sound somewhat drowned out by music from various cafes in different corners of the city.

The evening air was cool now that the sun had all but disappeared and fragrant from the garden behind us. I looked up at the pin prick of stars in the night sky, the blanket of darkness I had gazed upon for a mere fifteen weeks with my uncle.

My father, the gypsies, and even Joseph Bouquet slipped from my mind as I stood, content at last. Melodies filled my thoughts, music I composed in my head as I breathed in the night.

I thought of the violin I had found and how I would one day play it, perhaps on this very rooftop. Paris, this beautiful, sprawling city at my feet, deserved to hear Gustave Daae's violin one more time.

A surge of gratitude swept over me as I stood beside Madeline. This was what my uncle would have wanted for me, to be untroubled, my mind at ease and body healed. I smiled inwardly and hoped he smiled back from the heavens and shared in my newfound peace.


	9. Midnight Gluttony

Thank you for all of your reviews. I hope you're enjoying the story! Wondering how many of you have read any of the other Kire stories I've written or if you've started with this one? Let me know!

Chapter 9

Madeline's brother took a turn for the worse a week after the telegram arrived detailing his senseless dual. Our blissfully predictable routine spiraled into chaos as she prepared for her trip back to London-and as she paid me one last hasty visit, I shared in her grief.

"There is talk of removing his leg." Her voice trembled as she placed a bag on the table and furiously began removing provisions. Despite the obvious stress she was under, Madeline made certain I had enough food for a week. I felt a sense of guilt in preoccupying her time, though I was glad to see her once more before her long absence from the Opera House.

"Infection?" I questioned, although I already knew the answer.

"In his leg all the way to his hip from what my father said," she confirmed. "The surgeon said removing his leg might be of some help, but the risk…"

I shuddered at the thought of a surgeon sawing off her brother's leg at the hip. In the early months of traveling with the gypsies I had seen a man lose his hand following an accident erecting the tents. The sight of blood had nauseated me, and his screams of pain seemed to echo through my bones long after the hand was removed with a nail clear through his palm. For Madeline's sake, I hope she arrived after the surgery was complete.

"What choice is there?" Madeline asked absently. "He will die from infection or he will die in surgery. That is his fate."

My heart dropped on her behalf. If he had been shot in the hip and the physician wished to remove his whole leg, I feared Madeline would indeed return to England to bury her brother.

"The train leaves in an hour," she stated, more to herself as a reminder than to me. "I have not yet begun to pack."

"I will do this," I insisted as I reached for the supplies and pushed her hand away from the table. I knew full well she would unpack and organize everything she brought for me unless I made her leave. "Return to the dormitories before you miss your train."

Madeline hesitated and wrung her hands. "I have already missed the earliest train leaving for London. If I am not at the train station in an hour, my last opportunity is at nightfall."

"Then you must not miss the next one. Please, you must go."

"Of course, I must return for rehearsals in five days or I forfeit my place in the next show." She looked at me and frowned. "I have no idea what I will do if my family needs me longer."

"What happens if you miss the next rehearsals? You would wait until the next opera?"

"No, it is not that simple. I would forfeit my contract, which means I would not be allowed to stay in the dormitories unless I paid room and board. Ideally I would need to find a flat outside of the Opera House and hope I have the funds to survive for three months until the start of the next season. And then I would have to audition again and hope I was hired once more."

"You could stay here," I offered.

Madeline forced a smile. "You are very kind, but it is a great deal more complicated than housing. If I were to forfeit my contract, I would no longer be considered for ballet mistress when Madam Covert retires in two years."

"You wish to be the ballet mistress?" I asked, wondering what had become of her earlier dream of moving to southern France.

Madeline shrugged. "The position of ballet mistress makes the most sense," she replied.

That seemed hardly a suitable answer, but before I could ask about her dream of moving to Southern France, her shoulders dropped and she released a heavy sigh. I wondered if she was disappointed by her own reply.

"I will return in five days. You will be comfortable here until I return?"

I very much doubted it, but nonetheless I nodded. Given her brother's grave condition, she did not need to fret over me as well.

She took my hand before she left and tears flooded her eyes. "Please do not leave here," she said. "Bouquet has been slinking around more than usual and I fear he would find you if you went to the rooftop alone. Swear to me you will stay put?"

With a great deal of hesitation I agreed. Although we had only visited the rooftop twice, I looked forward to the change of scenery and the fresh air. Being above the city proved exhilarating, a forbidden playground complete with two Pegasus statues, three domes, and of course the wildly overgrown garden that sweetened the evening air in an intoxicating aroma.

The break between performances meant Madeline had more time away from the stage and she chose to spend much of it with me. She was the only person I spoke to, my only source of human contact. Without her I was little more than an animal left to languish in a forgotten cage.

"I will miss you," Madeline said before she left. "I mean that sincerely."

"I will miss you as well."

She had no idea how much her leave of absence would devastate me. The lump in my throat grew, and as the door closed behind her, I released a single sob of agony and fell to my knees. The silence around me gripped tight, the weight of my loneliness almost more than I could bear.

Five days, I told myself. You need only to survive five days and then she will return.

The five-day supply of food barely lasted forty-eight hours. I stared hopelessly at the barren pantry and empty bag that had held a substantial amount of food only two days prior and sighed to myself. While reading for hours on end I had absently eaten every apple, pear, bunch of grape, loaf of bread, and slice of cheese. The salted pork was gone, as were all of the root vegetables. I had a few spoonfuls of jam left to scrape from a jar and that was the extent of my sustenance.

I could not help but think of how disappointed Madeline would have been that I did not pace myself better given her absence. However, she would have been even more disappointed when I pulled on my boots, leather gloves, and cloak and slipped out of the fifth cellar.

Candle in hand, I heard her voice in my thoughts as she asked me to swear I would remain underground. Perhaps she would have reconsidered her request had she known I would spend three days starving. I was not disobeying out of spite but out of self preservation. After all, she herself had said I looked healthier than the day I had first arrived and with a steady diet would fill out even more.

There was not a soul around when I exited the cellar and crept through the doorway leading up to the rooftop. Somewhere in the distance a bell tolled eleven times and signaled the late hour, which I hoped would mean the Opera House inhabitants were sound asleep.

Aside from the stairway leading to the roof, the servant's hall split into three different directions, each leading to different parts of the vast theater. Madeline had spoken of ornate paintings, regal statues, marble floors and gilded ceilings as majestic as a palace. The servant's hall, however, was a winding passage of narrow, plain walls and floors that all looked the same.

While on our second trip to the rooftop, Madeline had quickly spouted off information about one hall leading to the manager's offices and apartments, another to the stage, and the last one to the dormitories, laundry and kitchens.

Each hall was designed for bustling servants to deliver costumes and linens to the stage and dormitories and to hasten dry goods to their respective places without the upper echelon ever seeing the lower class.

I stood quite dumbfounded by my surroundings as each passageway looked exactly the same and I feared losing my way. Anxiety threatened to end my quest for sustenance, but the growl in my belly would hear nothing of it.

Eyes closed, I imagined Madeline beside me rattling off the information she had memorized from years of living in the theater.

"Stables and storage, the stage and managers offices, dormitories, laundry and kitchen."

The hallway to the right beckoned me.

An eternity passed in the longest hall I had ever seen. I noticed several doors labeled A, B, and C which I assumed led to the dormitories belonging to dancers as I vaguely recalled Madeline saying she lived in Dormitory A.

Beyond the dorms were a series of three doors with gold engraved lettering. These rooms were designated for the ballet Mistress, Senor and Senora respectively. Further down was a door that simply read _honored guest._

The hallway split into a T, which I was certain Madeline failed to mention. Hands on my hips, I looked in both directions and found what I hoped was a clue on my grueling treasure hunt: a service cart in the middle of the hall to the right.

I smiled inwardly at my good fortune and headed toward the cart with a spring in my step. Quiet as a mouse, I pushed open the door and discovered a dry goods pantry with bags of beans, sugar and flour stacked from the floor to the ceiling. With a frown I shut the door and opened the one next to it, hoping for something to sate my growing appetite.

As soon as I opened the kitchen door, a mouse leapt off the table and ran between my feet where it disappeared into the hall. Startled, I slammed the door much harder than I intended, which rattled the dishes on a long table in the middle of the room and sent a door on a double hinge swinging back and forth. Startled, I ducked down as though somehow it would save me from being seen.

My heart raced as I remained crouched down inside the doorway, eyes wide and chest heaving. My heartbeat thrummed in my ear, every muscle taut and prepared to take flight if I heard the slightest noise indicating someone had heard me. A long moment passed before I stood upright and looked around the room.

The remnants of a fire in the hearth and long gave off enough light to view the kitchen, which was well enough considering my candle had gone out the moment I slammed the door shut.

The kitchen itself was much bigger than I had expected, complete with large, rectangular windows that I assumed flooded the work space with light during the day. There were several stations set up for food preparation as well as cabinets for storage. The room was divided by the double hinged door, and I craned my neck as I looked around at my new surroundings. Various pots and pans hung from hooks against the wall while shelves held more dishes and mugs than I had ever known existed in the world.

There were aprons and hats neatly kept against the opposite wall on individual hooks, and below a window a long table that had been well used and bore many deep grooves from knives, which were stored in blocks on a shelf above the table.

I opened a cupboard and found a collection of stock pots and spices. Bins beneath the long table held onions, leeks, mushrooms and potatoes. Disappointed that there was nothing actually cooked and ready to eat, I slipped through the double doors, careful not to allow them to swing back and forth, and into a room that could only be described as heaven on earth.

There was food everywhere. Pies, cakes, cookies, silver platters with silver lids, and breads of every variety stacked one on top of the other. Cured meats hung from strings and dangled in the pale moonlight shining through the elongated windows. Clearly the Opera House chefs had prepared a feast suitable for royalty.

Like a ravenous bear that had stumbled into a sleeping village, I lost every bit of self control. With both hands I dove into the sweet bread and stuffed as much into my mouth as I could fit without choking.

Crumbs tumbled down my shirt and onto the table, which I ignored as I moved onto dried meats and hard cheese, which I didn't care for, and immediately returned to another piece of dried meat.

Of all the sins a person could commit, gluttony was the most pleasurable. I ate until my empty stomach turned almost painfully full and I was certain I could not take another bite-and then I gulped down nearly a full carafe of cool water and groaned, satisfied by my feast.

A clock somewhere nearby chimed and I realized it was now midnight. I emptied a basket with fresh eggs and filled it instead with pies, cakes, and a full pound of beef, then topped it with a loaf of bread and fruit.

My stomach ached as I slid through the swinging doors and lit the candle in the hearth. A belch escaped the moment I bent forward, and I tugged at my trousers, which now seemed far too snug around my expanded belly.

I exited the kitchen and returned to the hall and waddled like a fat rat with its spoils. I smiled to myself as I navigated the halls once more, fingers grazing the lettering on the various doors I passed. The maze was much easier to navigate than I had expected, and I felt as though I had mastered my domain.

Once again I found my way to the main hallway where the passages met across from the cellar door. I wrapped my hand around the metal handle, and as I gave the door a push, I heard laughter around the corner in the servant's hall leading to the stage and offices.

Perhaps I should have simply crept out the door and safely down the stairs, but I paused and listened as it seemed quite odd for servants to be working in the middle of the night.

A woman giggled and a man told her to hush. I peeked around the corner and saw two figures crouched against the wall.

"How much is there?" the woman asked. She was short but thick with long, curly hair that was tied back at the nape of her neck and a light colored apron secured around her wide waist.

"Plenty," the man answered as he felt along the wall.

I recognized his voice as well as his portly figure. The sight of him sent fire through my veins.

"Oh come now, Joseph, how much do we have?"

Joseph Bouquet chuckled to himself. The bright red end of a cigar bobbed between his lips as he spoke. " _We?_ " he asked incredulously.

"I gave you the key. Surely that means I get a cut of the profits."

He grunted. "You have earned half this round. Fifty francs, my love, to spend on whatever you most desire."

"You know what I most desire," she said, her voice low and deep. The woman bent and kissed his cheek as he pulled a brick from the wall and reached inside.

Wide-eyed I watched as he removed a small wooden box, opened the lid, and deposited a handful of banknotes. He gave the lid a sloppy kiss and handed it to his female companion to do the same.

"We shall live like royalty," the woman said. "The new Emperor and Empress of France."

"Better than royalty thanks to my great uncle," Bouquet corrected. "That old senile fool will regret the day he cut me from his will. By the time I'm through with him, he will have nothing left to give his favorite nephews." To accent his words, he spit on the floor.

Bouquet returned the box into the wall and fit the brick into place before the two of them rose in unison. With a forceful push, he backed the woman up against the wall and pulled up her skirts as she grabbed a handful of his shirt and gave a shriek of laughter. His hands roved up her thighs and between her legs, and as she groaned in response, I wrinkled my nose and averted my eyes at their crude display of affection.

"Now, let me have a bit of my reward, love," he said as he unbuckled his belt.

Disgusted, I turned and made my way back to my lakeside home, supplies in hand and belly full.


	10. Cast into the Night

Please tell me what you think so far! Hoping to have another chapter posted before the end of the weekend! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 10

I knew the moment I returned to my underground abode I would not stay put for long. My curiosity was piqued instead of sated, and there was much left to explore within the Opera House.

Obedience was not my strong suit, and over the years I had escaped from my parents' cellar and scurried into the night in search of food, clean water, and a change of scenery. Barefoot and half-naked, I roamed the outskirts of the village and often found my way to the seashore where I waded in the chilly water on summer nights and listened the waves roar. Something about the turbulent sea made me feel less alone, and I longed for the feel of salty water on my skin and sand between my toes. The chill of the water and a cool night breeze awoke my senses, and while the waves crashed up to my belly and threatened to topple me over, I felt powerful in the night. The sensation was always short-lived, as I knew eventually I would return to my parents' cellar and all of the strength I felt would be beaten and bled from me.

In the village, once I abandoned the seashore, proved to be a place where I could scavenge for food alongside stray dogs and cats. During the summer I often stumbling upon meals left out by kind folks feeding transient fisherman passing through on their way to whatever life awaited them. Sometimes I found breads and meats, sometimes ale, which I never touched.

Each time I sneaked away from the cellar I knew very well there was a chance my father would discover me missing. Sometimes I shimmied through the window and into the quiet, damp darkness and fell asleep in my corner unnoticed. Other times I returned and found him seated on the cellar stairs, hands clasped and eyes aglow with rage. On those nights there were no words exchanged. He did not ask where I had been or what I did. More often than not he already had his belt in hand and I simply turned away and braced myself for the bite of the leather against flesh, an unspoken punishment for an unnamed crime.

Unlike my parents' home, there was no fear of retribution in returning to the Opera House cellar. With my pantry stocked once more, I stripped off my clothing, bathed in the lake and dressed for bed. The same feeling of strength derived from being in the ocean returned as I made a successful trip onto the main level of the Opera House and returned with the bounty of a king.

Not only did the Opera House have the most delicious food in all of Paris, but Madeline swore the theater itself was the most grand in all of Europe and quite possibly the world. With eyes wide and sweeping gestures, she described the theater in a way that made me feel as though I stood before the red curtain as it parted for the first act. As I climbed into bed, I thought about how Madeline had described the auditorium and the theater lobby in such great detail that I knew another world existed beyond the damp, cold confines of the servants passageways. Though I could see it in my mind, I longed to view it with my own eyes and sit in one of the red velvet seats reserved for the most generous patrons.

Against my better judgement, I departed the following evening at precisely eight with the intention of viewing the sunset from atop the theater with Apollo as my preferred company. Once darkness fell, I planned to return to the main floor, sneak a bite to eat in the kitchen and perhaps catch a glimpse of the empty theater. After that, I vowed to stay put in my own apartments until Madeline returned.

I placed the last slice of sweet bread from my previous adventure into a cloth, which I tucked into my cloak's inner pocket before I laced my boots. Lantern in hand, I took the stairs two at a time, my confidence fueled by my previous excursion.

As I had done the previous night I waited a moment and listened to make certain I was alone before slipping deftly from the cellar into the main hall and into the servant's halls.

With ease I trotted up two flights of stairs and nudged the rooftop door open where I paused and surveyed the area briefly. Several pigeons eyed me and cooed from their perch atop a nearby statue of a woman with her arms outstretched. Rather than scatter, they turned their heads and watched me as I passed them by and made my way to Apollo.

The night air was warm and humid, the city streets below crowded as usual. I sat on the edge of building, legs straddling the wide ledge, and removed the cloth with the sweetbread.

Almost immediately the pigeons took notice and the small flock landed a few feet away, bickering amongst themselves as though trying to decide who would ask for a bite first.

"Hungry?" I asked as I tossed crumbs to them. One particularly bold bird hopped within arm's reach and I held out my hand to offer him the biggest morsel. He obliged, his beady eyes meeting mine for a half a second before he flew away with his supper.

Once I was out of food the rest of the birds scattered to the streets below in search of more handouts. I watched them gather around a central fountain where children chased them away.

For a long while I sat, content with the night and the sounds below. Other than the time spent with my uncle, I had never felt much at ease out in the open, even when I was alone. For most of my life I woke from violent nightmares, a scream often caught in my throat. I dreamt of a faceless monster, a beast with red eyes and blood stained teeth who dragged me from beneath the stairs.

As I grew older, the faceless monster became bearded and drunk. His teeth were stained black from chewing tobacco. The only part of the nightmare that remained consistent was the monster still dragged me from beneath the stairs. I realized as I sat above Paris that I did not know the true color of his eyes or any distinct features, nor did I care.

Lightning flashed in the distance and glinted off Apollo's lyre. I waited until I heard the rumble of thunder and smelled the approaching storm before I swung my leg over the ledge and stood. I stretched like a cat, then made my way to the rooftop door and back to the main level.

I had not yet reached the bottom of the stairway when I heard music and laughter coming from the main hall. My pace slowed as I heard two women arguing from the hall leading to the stage and managers offices.

One of the women dragged a metal refuse bin behind her, which scraped against the floor and banged against the walls as she walked toward me. I was thankful for the racket it produced as the sound made it impossible for them to hear me in the hall.

"Your turn to empty the trash upstairs," the one carrying linens shouted over the noise of the trash can. "My knees can't take it. There's a storm coming."

"You and your knees," the other woman groaned.

My breath caught in my throat as I came to the realization of possibly being discovered. They were no more than ten paces ahead of me and once they reached the bottom of the stairs I was certain they would spot me. Without a second thought I darted around the corner and heard one of the women scream.

Her terror propelled me forward and I dashed down the hall, having no idea where I was heading or what lay ahead. Without risking a glance behind me, I pushed through the first door I found and out of their sight.

A flash disoriented me and before I knew what had happened, I shut the door and heard a rumble of thunder above me.

I stood in disbelief, unable to comprehend that I had exited the theater. Drizzle hit my face and I blinked, my contentment with a night out of the cellar replaced by panic. In the darkness I reached for the door handle and discovered there was none, yet still I clawed at the wooden barrier as if somehow it would swing open.

"No," I said under my breath.

Lightning flashed again, splintering in the night sky.

 _No Admittance,_ the door read in very large capital letters. I caught a mere glimpse against the split second of light, but suddenly my fate seemed sealed.

My mind went blank. The drizzle turned to a steady downpour as I stood in front of the doorway as though a handle would magically appear.

Eventually I turned my back to the theater door and pressed myself against the building. There was an overhang offering enough shelter to keep dry, which I took advantage of as I looked both ways down the alley and contemplated what I should do.

To the left it appeared to dead end into a large wooden fence with a board missing in the center. To the right was a street where people scattered as the storm approached. For the life of me I had no idea where the entrance Madeline had led me through the night I had escaped the fair. I recalled her saying the entrance was used by the stable boys as a shortcut, but other than that I had no idea how close it was to the stable or the door I had haplessly exited.

Madeline.

My heart sank as I thought of her returning from London in two days only to find the cellar empty. Rather than anger or sadness, I assumed she would be quite disappointed in me taking leave without so much as a note thanking her for her assistance.

Frustrated, I kicked the door and stalked down the alley toward the street. I pulled the hood low over my eyes as I left the shadows and slowed my pace once I saw a group of young men and women trot past. They were far too preoccupied with laughing as they splashed through the growing puddles to notice me approach, but I still placed my hand against the right side of my face to conceal the scars.

For days I had gone without the burlap sack that served as a hood, which was merely because Madeline had not returned it. Within the cellar I had not needed to keep my face covered. Madeline, being my only company, had not made a single remark about my appearance. When she looked me in the eye and spoke, I almost forgot the scars existed.

The rest of the world, however, would not forget. I feared what would happen if anyone saw a glimpse of my face. Most certainly someone would recognize me and I would immediately be placed in irons and sent to the gallows.

I balled my left hand into a fist at my side, frustration boiling over. I cursed myself for leaving the cellar as well as the Opera House even though that had not been my intention.

Rain pelted my cloak. I sloshed through the rain and walked aimlessly to the front of the Opera House, which was dark and imposing as there was no performance taking place. Banners hung from the long columns depicting a robust woman with flaming red hair. The top of both banners read _Now Starring_ while the bottom read _The Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo_.

I stared at the woman's picture for a moment. She posed with a golden wine goblet overflowing with wine and her breasts overflowing from a golden breastplate. Her cheeks were the same color as her hair and lips, which made her appear somewhat garish. I wondered if her voice was as impressive as her advertisement in front of the Opera House.

Far above Catherda di Carlo, Apollo stood as a sentinel atop the Opera House. I squinted in the rain as I risked a glance at the bronze statue. The sky above him split open again with another flash of lightning, which was closely followed by the rumble of thunder that shook the ground.

"Please, help me," I whispered to the likeness of the deity.

Footsteps garnered my attention and I turned to find two men jogging toward me. I stepped aside, head bowed, and felt one man brush up against me, his hand tugging at my cloak with such force I almost lost my balance. They took off in opposite directions, their feet pounding the cobblestones as they disappeared into the night. Thieves, I realized a moment too late, who would come up with only an empty cloth and sweetbread crumbs.

I whirled around and discovered the streets were quite empty aside from two waiters attempting to pull chairs and tables beneath an awning. They ignored me and I walked briskly around the side of the Opera House furthest from where I had cast myself out. I balled my hands around my cloak and pulled the fabric tight around my body as the storm grew more violent and the wind picked up.

The alley on this side of the Opera House was much wider and paved with cobblestones. Several of the doors, which I frantically checked, had small awnings over them just like the one I had exited. Each time I rattled the handles and tugged with all of my weight hoping for a miracle. With each failed attempt I became more desperate to find a way back into the theater. My hands felt cold and numb, a mixture of the rain on my flesh and my frayed nerves.

At last I found myself at the rear of the theater where the smell of horses and hay permeated the air. Suddenly I realized why the alley was wider on this side of the building: the passage of carriages.

I crept beneath the overhang of the stable and out of the storm where I shivered. The stable doors were closed for the evening and padlocked, but there were two windows open for ventilation low enough for me to climb into the stable itself. It took two tries before I managed to lift myself up high enough. Without an ounce of grace I tumbled through the window and landed on several bales of hay. The back of my head hit the inside wall and I winced, cursing under my breath. My arm hit a pitchfork, which thankfully had been speared into the hay bail and didn't skewer me on my fall.

The horse in the stall across from where I had landed-a black mare with a braided mane-snorted and danced back and forth at my sudden appearance, her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air and she let out a snort of displeasure.

"Shh, you're fine," I whispered as I rolled to my feet. I walked to her, pleasantly surprised to be in the company of such a beautiful creature, and ran my fingers along her warm, soft neck and shoulder. She settled at my touch, which made me smile. While women and children shrieked in my presence, animals never showed fear or discomfort. The bichons in the circus curled up against me at night and the show horses whinnied and nuzzled me as I stood amongst them. My uncle would have said they sensed my good heart.

The horse nuzzled my ear before she pushed her head beneath my arm, apparently smelling the remnants of sweet bread crumbs. "I am sorry, I have nothing left," I whispered.

Soft brown eyes forgave me, and once the horse seemed content I slipped out of the stall and through the stable where I passed several other horses and a black and white barn cat that hopped down from the rafters and followed me, meowing as she rubbed against my leg.

I tried the door leading into the Opera House and, to my utter surprise, it swung open. I shivered again as a warm rush of air greeted me, the sensation running from my scalp to my toes. The soft glow of lantern light stretched down the empty arched hallway and I sighed in relief, grateful to be out of the storm.

As quietly as I could I shut the door behind me and made my way down the hall, leaving behind a trail of muddy footprints and a considerable amount of rain that splattered from my cloak. My mind raced as I found myself back to familiar surroundings at last, and I nearly sank to my knees once I saw the door leading out into the main door and at last down to the cellars.

Breath held, I pressed my ear to the doorway and listened for voices, but the party had either moved elsewhere or ended for the night. I counted to three and exited the servant's hall where I grabbed a torch off the wall and disappeared through the cellar door. My knees shook with each step, which I assumed was from both the panic I had experienced as well as the arduous walk in the storm.

Once I reached the fifth cellar, I removed my muddy boots and left them near the door. Shivering from the cold, I shrugged out of my cloak and allowed it to fall in a heap. Closer to the table I removed my shirt and trousers and flung them aside, not caring where they landed.

Exhausted in every sense of the word, I waded into the lake and floated in the middle of the bubbling warmer water until my heart rate slowed and my body finally stopped trembling. My eyes grew heavy, weariness settling into my bones as adrenaline wore off and I considered what could have been my fate.

I did not risk leaving the cellar again, at least not for a long while.


	11. Return from London

Chapter 11

As promised, Madeline returned on the fifth day. I had no idea when she would pay me a visit, so I busied myself with rearranging furniture and separating what I had uncovered in the various crates and boxes as items of interest and rubbish. Eventually I intended to deposit the rubbish into the furnace and use the emptied crates as fuel for a fire once I cleared the space in front of it.

With spiderwebs clinging to my forearms and sweated beaded on my forehead, I heard the cellar door open and close as I stood perched atop the largest crate in the very back. I paused for a moment and stood on the tips of my toes. From where I stood I could only see her from the shoulders up, but once I spotted her, I smiled to myself, grateful for her return.

"Madeline?" I called.

"Erik," she replied as she turned in a full circle and stood on the tips of her toes in search of me.

Her voice lacked enthusiasm, which gave me pause. Nevertheless I hopped from one crate to the next before I jumped down from the pile of unopened treasures and trotted toward her, a wide smile of relief spread across my face. I had missed her terribly, in a way I had never felt before.

I came to a stop several feet away and realized a stranger had returned in Madeline's place. Her face was puffy and yet seemed more angular. Her red, swollen eyes met mine and she forced a smile.

"It's late," she said. "I cannot stay long."

She turned away from me then and, without thinking, I placed my hand on her shoulder and held her in place. To my surprise she did not struggle or pull away from me.

"What happened?" I asked.

Madeline bowed her head. She inhaled sharply and stood in silence with her back to me for a long moment.

"I did not make it in time." Her words and the hollowness of her voice made me shiver. "My parents were supposed to meet me at the train station, but they sent my aunt instead. The moment I saw her, I knew I was too late."

There was nothing I could say that would lessen her grief, and yet still I made an attempt to ease her pain. "My apologies. Would you care to speak of your trip?" I asked awkwardly, unsure of whether she wanted to share details with me.

She nodded and quietly thanked me. "They said he passed not more than two hours before I arrived. A mere two hours and I missed telling my brother I loved him. I cannot recall ever telling him how good he was to me when we were younger. I regret it now."

I thought of how she had missed the earlier train and come to visit me instead as she wanted to make certain I had enough food to last five days. Perhaps she did not regret her choice, but I certainly did.

"I had months with my uncle," I said, uncertain of why I decided to share something both personal and deeply painful. Despite ten months since his passing, I felt as though the heartache was still fresh. "And yet I feel as though there was no one more important in my life. I have tried desperately not to think of him, and yet I think of him when I smell pipe smoke, hear a violin, feel the rain… Such small details and he is there."

Madeline turned and looked at me. "I did not know you only knew him for a short time."

A lifetime would not have been enough for me. "He saved me," I confessed.

"May I ask how?"

I pursed my lips and considered my next words. "My parents intended to send me to an asylum because-because of many reasons, I'm certain." My throat tightened unexpectedly. Despite everything they had done to me, each beating and harsh world, I still loved them-and I still wanted them to love me. "I would be in an asylum right now if not for my uncle. And yet when I buried him, I wanted nothing more than to join him."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded in agreement. "I should have left the day my brother was shot," Madeline said. "The guilt..."

"Is overwhelming," I said. "I should not have allowed my uncle to travel another step when he was sick. Perhaps he would still be alive if not for my selfishness."

Saying the words aloud left me breathless. For almost a year I had kept that dreadful thought to myself, and once I had spoken the words aloud, grief knifed through me as it had the day I clutched his cold hand and draped my sobbing body over his, begging him to return to me. Every detail from the yellowed appearance of his skin to his gaunt, still frame rushed into the forefront of my mind.

Madeline closed her eyes and her shoulders dropped. "You blame yourself."

"Who else is there to blame?" I felt a spike of anger deep inside, like a rock jutting from a lake that split my grief in half. The turbulence of emotion left me feeling dizzy. "I would give anything to hear his voice one last time. I would willingly walk the length of France and admit myself into an asylum to bring him back."

More than anything, I wished I had died alongside him. The weeks that had stretched into months following his death had been twisted with grief and numbness. I alternated between hating myself for causing his demise and hating my uncle for keeping his grave condition a secret from me until it was too late. He should have known I was a worthless and ignorant boy too blind to see him wasting away before my eyes.

"I would do the same to see my brother one last time. The shirt I gave you, the brown one with the buttons, it belonged to Thomas. He realized he left his bag behind once he and the rest of my family reached the train station and he told me to run back and fetch it for him, but I refused. We argued over it, and when he left that day he told me I was a spoiled little brat and he would never come visit me again and I told him I didn't want to see him. Those were the last words we ever said to one another."

"I wish I had told my uncle I loved him."

For almost a year I had wanted to speak those words, but no one was willing to listen to me.

I looked at her suddenly. "I do not know if he was aware of how much he meant to me."

"With the way you speak of him, he most certainly knew." Madeline placed her hand on my forearm. I stared at her long fingers, of how she provided comfort to me when she grieved as I did. "I wish I had told my brother the same. And yet even if your uncle and my brother did not hear us speak those words, I do not think they would want us to feel such misery. We did love them, perhaps more than we ever knew."

She was correct. My uncle had done everything in his power to provide for me and give me an opportunity at a life beyond my parents' filthy cellar. He had seen in me what I still could not see in myself. He loved me more than anyone else I had ever met, and I cherished each day with him, even though I didn't always show my appreciation.

"I am sorry for your loss," I said to her.

Madeline offered a wan smile and squeezed my arm. "I am sorry for yours as well." She pushed her hair back from her face and sniffled. "I worried about you while I was away."

Her words amused me. "I worried for myself."

She giggled at last, mood visibly changed. "In my haste I forgot to bring you hot food."

"I have enough to eat."

Madeline nodded and turned away. "Then if you are well for the night…" Her voice trailed away and I looked from her to the doorway where she had trained her gaze. "Your boots," she gasped.

The cloak I had left out to dry and carefully hung up, my wet clothes I had collected, laundered by hand, and put away. The boots, however, had remained covered in mud and left by the door.

She whipped around and glared at me. "You left the cellar?" she asked. "After I had specifically asked you to stay put?"

"I ran out of food," I stated.

"When?"

"The second day."

Her eyes grew wide. "Impossible."

I had not expected to defend myself and thus was not prepared to do so. With nothing left to say, I shifted my weight and looked away.

"Where did you go?" Madeline persisted.

"The first time I went to the kitchen."

Madeline did not immediately reply, and I swore her anger burned through me.

"The first time? How many times did you leave?" she asked at last.

I had no desire to answer as I fully realized there was nothing I could say that would appease her.

"Erik," she said sharply.

"Twice," I blurted out. I did not dare meet her eye. "The first night to the kitchen for food as I was hungry and I had nothing left. I swear this is true."

"And the next time?"

"The second time I went to the rooftop." My hands balled into fists at my side, a nervous, instinctive reaction of sheer panic.

Madeline glanced at my hands briefly but did not comment on my more rigid stance. "That does not explain all the mud." Her features softened slightly, her anger replaced by concern. "What happened?"

"I saw a storm approaching and descended the stairs to return here for the night, but there was two women in the servant's hall when I reached the last steps. It was after sunset and I did not expect anyone to still be working. I didn't know what to do."

Again her eyes widened. "Did they see you?"

I shook my head. "I do not think so. I exited through the first door I saw before they could see me."

Apparently I sounded tremendously guilty as the questioning continued. "And then what happened?"

"I could not return inside."

Madeline considered my words as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Could not return inside where? The theater?"

I nodded. "The door locked behind me and there was no handle. I found myself in the alley."

She gasped, her face suddenly a shade whiter. She settled her hand over her chest and shook her head in disbelief. "Sweet Jesus, how long were you outside?"

"A few hours, I suppose." It had felt like an eternity, but I decided not to embellish my story, despite it clearly garnering me a bit of motherly sympathy.

At last Madeline looked at me and frowned as she shook her head in pure awe of my unexpected adventure. "How did you find a way inside? Surely all of the doors were locked."

I told her of how I managed to pull myself through a stable window and how the door leading into the theater was unlocked, which she assured me was a mistake and how fortunate I was to have found a way back inside. I conveniently left out the part where the two men would have robbed me on the street if I had possessed anything of value.

"Locked outside in the rain and yet no worse for wear," she said with an exasperated sigh. "My goodness, you most certainly have an angel watching over you."

My uncle, I suspected. No other angel would claim me.

"I do hope you have learned a valuable lesson," Madeline said sternly. "You are beyond fortunate you made it back inside unscathed. I would have worried myself to death if I had come down here and found you were missing."

"I know," I said before she could continue. I apologize for my foolish actions and I am glad you have returned," I said.

My words seemed to satisfy her. "I am too. Now clean your boots off and I will see you in the morning before the start of rehearsals."

Three days passed and still Madeline seemed like a different person since her unexpected trip to England. She spoke very little of her brother's death and the arrangements for his burial, which I understood as being still quit fresh and painful. Due to her commitment with the theater, she could not stay for the funeral, which saddened her, but the new performance at the Opera House occupied her time and left no room for dwelling on her grief, as she put it.

"I do believe you were spotted," she said at breakfast on the fourth morning.

I could not tell if she was upset with me or merely stating a fact, and so I made no remark.

Madeline eyed me from her seat across the table while she sipped her coffee. "One of the cooks said the kitchen was ransacked. There were footsteps left in flour spilled across the floor and pastries meant for the Opera House managers disappeared," she explained when I did not reply.

I looked away as she dabbed the corners of her mouth. Ransacked did indeed sound like the proper description of what I had done. Perhaps I should have felt worse, but I had no regrets concerning my actions.

"And then the following night two maids confessed to seeing an apparition in the hall."

"What is an apparition?"

Madeline sat back in her chair and moved crumbs left from her biscuit around on her plate with her index finger. "A ghost," she explained. "They both said a very large apparition chased them down the hallway, floating in the air several feet above the ground. They both described it as having red, burning eyes and a head of death. When they rounded the corner, it disappeared into thin air."

"I did not chase anyone," I blurted out.

"I assume you did not float down the hall or somehow turn your eyes red either." Madeline smirked.

My gaze lowered. The second night had truly been the greatest of disasters. "I did not think they saw me."

"There is more," she said with a sigh. "A substantial amount of money from the last performance is missing out of the manager's office."

"I did not steal," I said defensively, afraid she would find a reason to send me away. It was bad enough I had disobeyed her orders to stay put, but it was an entirely different ordeal if I had taken up thievery as well. "I mean to say, I did not steal money. I took food and nothing more. I swear it."

"I am not accusing you, however, everyone in the Opera House believes we have obtained a ghost. I suppose someone planned their robbery at the same time the Opera House was in a frenzy as to blame the theft on a phantom."

"The thief is not a ghost."

Madeline furrowed her brow, eyes narrowed and trained on me. "How do you know?"

I hesitated a moment, unsure of whether or not I wanted to tell her what I had seen.

"Erik," she warned. "How do you know?"

"I saw Bouquet. He is hiding stolen funds in the servant's hall behind a loose brick. There was a woman with him and she said she gave him a key. They put fifty francs into the box. That is all I heard before I walked away."

Madeline folded her hands and remained quiet for a long moment. Her silent contemplation made me uneasy as I hoped she did not think I had fabricated the story to save myself from trouble. "What did the woman look like?" she asked at last.

"I did not see her face, but she was short and round with curly hair."

Madeline grunted. "Simone Cavroux, I think. She is a maid for Bouquet's great uncle, Monsieur Lorett's estate across town once a week and employed here several days a week. Bouquet is a drunken louse and a fool but I did not take him for a thief." Madeline shook her head in disgust. "I suppose I should have known."

"What are you going to do?" I asked, keeping my voice low as though someone would overhear us.

"For now I will blame it on the ghost like everyone else," she answered.

I could not help but feel somewhat offended by her words. Loathing Bouquet as I did, I wished to see him jailed for his thievery. With the manner in which he had spoken to Madeline, he deserved to hang.

"You will not turn him in?" I asked.

Madeline shook her head. "I do not wish to be involved with anything concerning that man. The further away I am from him, the better." She leaned forward and met my gaze. The same goes for you, do you understand?"

I nodded reluctantly.

"Erik?"

"I understand," I muttered.


	12. Exchanging One Cage for Another

Chapter 12

The next set of rehearsals started and Madeline's time was once again divided between her duties in the theater and her visits with me, which became less frequent and more brief as the weeks passed. She seldom ate when she brought me food, and I noticed her face became thinner and she seemed to be in a perpetual state of exhaustion.

"What are you performing?" I asked one afternoon as Madeline removed her ballet slippers and gingerly made her way toward the lake. Two weeks of all-day rehearsals had taken a toll, she had said when she hobbled into the cellar.

She curled her toes in the shallow water and sighed in relief. "Fidelio," she answered with her eyes closed. "Beethoven. Cathedra is quite displeased with her role, which means we will all suffer her wrath and tantrums. The woman is thirty-five but acts as though she is three when she is dissatisfied."

"The woman with the red hair?" I asked.

Madeline seemed surprised by my question. "How did you know she has red hair?"

"The front of the theater has banners with her image."

Madeline kicked at the water and rolled her eyes. "Ah, yes, at her husband's insistence the managers put up those garish woman is simply impossible. Instead of calling her the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo it should be the Impossible. She looked over her shoulder at me and gave a devilish grin. "And you know what else? She wears a wig."

I stood with my hands on my hips and shook my head, amused by Madeline's wicked tone. "She does not."

Madeline laughed to herself, which was the first time I had seen her jovial in several weeks. "I swear on my life. You should see it. When she is not wearing it she looks like a fat thumb."

My eyes widened and Madeline gave a shriek of unexpected laughter before she fanned her face and asked God to forgive her.

"I would like to see a performance," I said once she settled down and our laughter faded. Indeed, it was the only thought running through my mind day and night.

Madeline turned to fully face me, her expression sobered. "I suspect you tire of being down here for days at a time."

She looked at me with sympathy and frowned. Too many people on too many nights had set their gazes upon me as I languished behind iron bars and pitied the creature before them. Her expression irritated me.

"It's been more than two weeks," I said bitterly. Seventeen days, to be exact, although I very much doubted she kept count as I did.

She stepped out of the water and grimaced as she made her way toward the armchairs and proceeded to collapse into the nearest one. Once seated, she rotated her right ankle and flexed her toes.

"What about attending a rehearsal? I would stay out of sight," I said once she didn't answer me.

"I will see if I can find you a suitable spot," Madeline responded absently. "Would you bring my basket to me, please?"

My shoulders dropped but I did as she requested before I took a seat beside her and slouched miserably in the armchair.

"When will you find a suitable spot?" I persisted.

"When my feet have recovered enough to find one."

Her answer did nothing to placate me.

"You're sulking," Madeline said as she proceeded to bandage her right foot. She looked at me from the corner of her eye as she tended to her blisters.

"Am I to stay a prisoner?" I snapped. "Your own monster tucked away beneath the Opera House for your own perverse entertainment?"

I fully expected Madeline to match my belligerent tone, however, she simply paused and raised an eyebrow. In an instant I swore she gazed through me. "I do beg your pardon?" she casually replied.

Her calm rattled me to the core. I sat upright, my teeth clenched and body rigid.

"You insist I must stay down here unless you accompany me and yet you have not allowed me to leave here in seventeen days. The gypsies have left Paris, have they not? Why must I remain here day in and day out with you bringing me rations like a pet locked away? I have done nothing more than exchanged one cage for another." I slammed my fists onto the arm of the chair, though the cushion failed to sufficiently accent my anger.

Rage got the best of me and I sucked in a wild breath, afraid my indignation would morph into tears. At last I turned away from her, my heart feeling barely contained by my ribcage.

"Erik."

Madeline took a deep breath and I met her gaze with reservation. She remained perfectly calm, her eyes soft and expression unreadable. In silence she looked me over which made me feel like a foolish child who had spoken out of turn. Indeed, that was exactly how I had behaved.

"First of all," she said without looking away. "I did not realize so much time had passed since we were able to see the rooftop. These rehearsals have been quite grueling and I have had a difficult time since my brother's passing with focusing on my duties here in the Opera House. I fear one too many mistakes on my part and I will be released from my contract. If I should be terminated from employment, I am not certain where you would find safety."

Her voice was steady, her light eyes unwavering. With each word she spoke, I realized how ludicrous my outburst had been.

"Secondly," she continued. "The gypsies have indeed left Paris, however, there are still posters with your description throughout the city, including one nailed within steps of the Opera House entrance. There is a modest reward for your capture on behalf of The Garouche family….and it does not say you must be brought to them alive. In fact, it says the body of the Living Corpse need only be shown to a member of the family for a swiftly paid reward."

My heart raced as she spoke, hands balling into fists at my sides. I thought of the two men who had attempted to pickpocket me on the street the night I had locked myself out of the theater and what could have happened if they had seen my face.

"And lastly, Erik, I do not consider you a pet or any type of beast. Perhaps you have become accustomed to others labeling you as such, but I have and will continue to do as much as I can to keep you safe. Strange as this may be to you, I do not look upon your face and see an animal or the devil's son. You remind me of my brother Thomas, and right now I cannot bear to think of anything happening to you. I sincerely apologize if you thought my actions or lack of have been spiteful or cruel. That was not my intention."

I looked away well before she finished speaking and hung my head in shame. My lips quivered as frustration subsided and the familiar swell of self-loathing washed over me. I had wanted her to argue with me, to hate me as much as I hated myself. An ungrateful bastard, my father would have called me, undeserving of her kindness. He had been correct about me all along.

We sat in silence. Madeline continued to bandage her feet while I contemplated what I should say. My father's words taunted me internally, countless harsh words that replaced my own thoughts. Darkness flowed through my mind, familiar and yet dreaded all the same.

 _You are worthless, lower than the worms in the soil. Such an ugly, disgusting wretch pretending to be human. You were made from the devil's seed. No one will ever see you as anything but a filthy, mindless monster._

My father's words rang loud and clear in my tumultuous head. My vision tunneled as I thought of him standing over me, a cruel monolith more than ready to strike without notice. I pictured him standing over my body, arm held at an angle as he threatened to hit me again if I dared to flinch or show emotion.

I thought of how he would kick dirt at my outstretched leg and spit tobacco into my tangled hair before he finally stumbled up the stairs and to his wife. Sometimes the house fell silent, other times I sat numb on the cold ground and listened to them argue. Often I waited for the embodiment of my terror to return and leave me wishing he would end my suffering once and for all.

Strange how it seemed the bruises faded and the welts were no longer visible, but it was his words that stabbed me repeatedly. From some wounds there was no healing and no visible scars left behind on my flesh. Those hurt the worst-and I had inflicted some of my own on Madeline.

The cellar door slammed shut and I jumped clear out of the armchair. Several seconds passed before I registered my surroundings and realized Madeline had walked out of the cavern. I blinked until my vision regained focus, then bolted toward the door and pulled it open.

"Madeline!" I yelled.

She was halfway up the first set of steps and whipped around, clearly startled by my sudden presence. Her ballet slippers, which she carried in her left hand, fell from her grasp and landed on the second to the last step.

I collected them quickly and met her in the middle of the dark stairway. Eyes averted, I handed her the slippers and collapsed on the stairs, my chest tight and a lump as big as my fist lodged in my throat.

A dozen apologies and pleas raced through my mind but not one managed to find its way to my lips. Tears pricked my tightly shut eyes and I leaned against the wall, once again trapped between sorrow and burning rage.

I was acutely aware of why I was to remain alone. No one would tolerate such a faceless creature unable to keep his emotions in check. I had tested my uncle's kindness on many occasions and tonight I had all but destroyed Madeline's faith in me.

"Erik?"

"Please forgive me," I whispered, my voice quivering.

Madeline pulled me toward her until my head rested against her shoulder. I shivered at the warmth of her unexpected touch and released a pent up sob despite fearing she would find my display of emotion more than she could tolerate.

"I am not upset with you," Madeline said into my ear. She stroked my hair back from my face, her caress soft and motherly. "I am upset for you."


	13. Across the Lake

For those of you who haven't seen, I've added a couple more chapters to Giver of Life. Sorry if updates are a little slow lately. Each chapter takes anywhere from 3 to 6 days to complete. Thanks for sticking with me!

Chapter 13

Before she left that evening, Madeline made certain I was aware the condition of her feet would prevent her from rehearsing for a few days, which also meant she would not be paying me a visit. I paced myself with food and occupied my time with sketching, sorting through music, and clearing the path to the enormous furnace hidden behind the mountain of wooden crates.

Days passed uneventfully. I became somewhat restless now that a full three weeks had gone by since I had left my lakeside apartments. While there was plenty of work to be done, I was in no mood to toil for hours on end and instead entertained myself with less productive tasks.

The lake in particular interested me as it was far too dark within the cavern to see where the water met the cave wall on the other side. I stripped down to trousers and waded into the murky depths with a candle to light the way. I treaded water, candle held above my head, and continued well past where my toes could reach. Every few seconds I glanced back at the shoreline illuminated with two dozen candles on brass candelabras before I swam further into the darkness.

There was a gentle current to the water, I realized, and as I swam further out the temperature turned much cooler. The airflow became stronger as well and hissed through the unseen cave above my head. I reached my free hand out, legs scissoring through the cold flow of water until the tips of my hand hit something hard beneath the surface.

Wide-eyed, I immediately startled and pulled back, certain I had encountered a serpent of the deep. I wrenched back so hard I nearly extinguished the candle, and my jarring actions caused my face to bob beneath the gentle waves while hot wax splattered onto my fist. Before I could register what had happened, I sucked in a mouthful of water and began to choke. Desperate and alone, I flailed about until my toes skimmed the bottom of the lake. With one hand I propelled myself forward until the balls of my feet found solid ground and my head remained above water.

I coughed until I managed to expel the water from my lungs, then looked back and discovered the shoreline on the other side was further than I had expected, yet still visible. What I had thought had been a straight line of swimming had actually been quite off course, and once my eyes adjusted to my surroundings I realized I had swam a good two hundred meters at least.

Waist-deep in the water, I glanced around and discovered the other side of the lake had a shoreline as well and did not abruptly end with a cave wall as I had imagined. The object I had hit with my outstretched hand bobbed in the lapping water, and as I held out the candle for a better look I realized it was a small overturned boat.

"Daae," I whispered. The pirate had left behind a modest vessel for me to discover.

After weeks of utter boredom, the discovery thrilled me to the core. I pulled myself onto dry land and realized how impractical a single candle had been been for my excursion.

I walked dripping wet several feet along the shoreline to where two thin metal poles jutting out of the lake marked a boat ramp. I shivered as the cool air seemed to exhale an unseen breath against my naked torso. With one arm wrapped around my body, I discovered a crack in the natural wall wide enough to lodge the candle. Not the most suitable of light sources, but given the circumstances I felt quite satisfied with my resourcefulness.

Once I took a step back, I wondered about the enormity of the cave on this side of the lake. The meager light provided few details, and I hoped once I had the boat righted and on dry land I would have enough candlelight to explore a bit before I needed to return across the lake.

With both hands free, I slid back into the water and to the boat, which I guided to the ramp. Once positioned, I grit my teeth and pushed it as far as I could out of the water, but the sharp rocks along the bottom were slippery and made it difficult to find traction. I feared slicing my foot open and, given the distance I was from my side of the lake, I wasn't sure how I would swim back in the dark with only one good foot.

The vessel was also much heavier than I had anticipated, and despite my best efforts, the task proved fruitless as the capsized boat was still very much underwater.

Out of breath, I pulled myself onto dry land once more and stared at the boat. The pirate and his ship would not best me, I told myself. In my mind I pictured a man with long, thick hair rowing a boat with a dozen women surrounding him as he whisked them away to his secret abode. By candlelight he romanced them one by one and seduced them into his arms. I imagined them drinking wine from golden goblets, women stretched out on silk pillows as they sighed and listened to him play the violin. He would give an exaggerated bow before his harem begged him to join them.

I had seen my fair share of women seduced by lesser men while I traveled with the gypsies. Often when no one remembered I slept beneath the last wagons with the dogs, Garouche's youngest son or one of the other various young men would bring a wide-eyed girl from the town into the camp late at night and sneak her into his tent or into the woods. I wondered if Daae had such exploits within the Opera House, if he won the favor of unsuspecting young women only to break their hearts.

"What happened to your boat?" I wondered aloud. My voice echoed through the shadowy cavern. "And how long has it been like this?"

I imagined my uncle would have been very disappointed in the owner for leaving the boat in such condition. With a deep sigh, I made one last attempt to bring the boat ashore by lifting the front end. Squatted down at the bottom of the ramp, I lifted one side and put all of my strength into turning the boat upright, but the coating of slime coupled with the damaged wood made the task impossible.

The boat slid from my grasp and I hopped back to avoid crushing my toes. With a tremendous, reverberating crash, the warped wood split into several good sized chunks and hundreds of smaller splinters. In the same moment, the candle I had lodged into a crack came loose. From the corner of my eye I saw it fall and heard the wax clatter against stone as the flame went out.

I cursed loudly and stood motionless for several seconds, startled by the sudden darkness. Body rigid, I shuffled toward the water's edge, careful to drag the soles of my feet against the rocks rather than step onto splinters. I clenched my teeth and felt my way into the lake, my gaze trained on the distant twinkle of candlelight.

Fear coiled around me as the dark water lapped up against my chin and lips. I gulped in air and frantically swam against the current, which suddenly seemed more powerful, and pulled myself toward the lights. Twice my head went under, hair plastered to my face as I resurfaced and dreaded what would happen if I lost sight of the shoreline ahead of me.

An eternity seemed to pass, but at last the darkness gave way to the glow of a dozen candles illuminating my apartments. Relief washed over me the moment my feet touched the smoother surface on my side of the lake and I knew I had succeeded in swimming across. I glanced back at the distant shore and frowned, disappointed my adventure had come to an abrupt end yet satisfied with my discovery and thankful I had survived crossing the lake in nearly complete darkness.

I stripped out of my heavy, wet trousers and wrapped a towel around my hips. Goose flesh covered my bare arms and I shivered as I rifled through my dry clothing. From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a floor length mirror and paused.

It had been weeks since I had dared to look at my own image. My breath caught in my throat as I turned and faced the young man in the oval mirror. My hair was still dripping wet and in need of a trim as it reached my shoulders. I stepped closer, one hand securing the towel around my hips while my free hand combed through wet strands of hair. Eyes narrowed, I examined my scalp, surprised to find hair growing back from where Garouche had so easily pulled fistfulls out over the summer.

My heart beat faster. I met my own eyes briefly before I gingerly pressed my fingers against the pink flesh where I had hit my head falling down the stairs. The scar was not as bad as I had expected, and if my hair continued to grow, it would be virtually unnoticeable.

The skeletal figure had vanished, the sunken eyes, pronounced hips and protruding ribs had disappeared. My rail thin arms and legs had been strengthened by moving heavy boxes and furniture. I held my right arm out and marveled at the sinewy appearance of toned muscle beneath flesh. I was not as bulky as the strong man Eros from the circus, but I was satisfied with my transformation from a living corpse to an ordinary teenage boy-albeit with many more scars from switches.

And yet despite how much I had changed in weeks, I was still very much the same. Light eyes stared back at me, the glimmer of satisfaction extinguished once I set my gaze on the scars that had dictated my life. No amount of weight gain and passage of time would change the wounds I had possessed since birth.

After several agonizing moments of examining the scars, I grabbed a sheet and draped it over the mirror. I turned my back on my obscured reflection and thought of the handsome Gustave Daae and his many female companions. I thought of Garouche and the rest of his cruel family, of my abusive parents and my kind uncle and of Amelie Batiste, who had not seen my damaged face.

My Uncle Alak and Madeline were the only two people who had seen my unmasked flesh and had not recoiled in horror. Chest heaving, I turned on my heel and tore the sheet off the mirror. For a long moment I stared back at the monster, challenged the beast to reveal the reason my uncle and Madeline had treated me differently.

For many years I had no understanding of why my mother shrieked in horror and my father beat me several times a week. It was not until I was six or seven years of age that I first saw my reflection in a dirty oval mirror my father had shoved in my face.

 _Look at yourself, you filthy bastard._

He held a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back so hard I was surprised my neck did not snap. With tears threatening, I stared, wide-eyed at the bruised, swollen left side of my face and the scars on the right. I remembered with painful clarity the horror I felt seeing my misshapen bottom lip, the dragged down appearance of my eye, and uneven flesh across my cheek like flesh that had been stretched too far over bone. The face of a monster, I had thought, I had the face of a monster.

And I deserved to be feared and loathed and punished for my terrible existence. Suddenly the heavy hand and belt striking me over and over made sense. The evil needed to be beat out of me, my father said, and I wanted nothing more than to be rid of whatever wickedness he swore was within my small body.

For year the punishment continued and the only change within me was my broken spirit turned into numbness. No amount of blood letting, bones breaking, or bruises issued changed the evilness my father saw when he looked at me. After a while, the beatings became routine and I forgot why he struck me. One glance in the mirror and I was acutely aware of why he loathed me.

As swiftly as anger and desperation had threatened to take over my emotions, the sensation subsided and I forced myself to take a deep breath. I relaxed my clenched fists, dropped my shoulders, and stood up straighter. Green eyes stared back as I lifted my chin and looked myself over one more time.

I would not be bested by the titles I had been given by Garouche or my father. I would be whatever my uncle and Madeline had seen in me. Imperfect, I knew, but if they had seen worth, I would find value in myself, just as my uncle had told me to while we traveled together.

I left the mirror uncovered, turned away, and dressed for bed. From the corner of my eye I saw my reflection at a distance and strangely the hatred I felt for myself seemed less prominent.

That night I had no dreams or nightmares, at least none I could recall. The stranglehold of the past had loosened its grip and I slipped free, if only for a moment. The wickedness my father spoke of never surfaced, and for that I was grateful. Perhaps he was incorrect after all. Perhaps I had the potential to be more than a monster.


	14. Box Five

**If you're still with me, please leave a review and let me know! I appreciate your feedback.**

Chapter 14

Madeline came to visit early one morning, so early in fact that I was startled from sleep by her poking me in the arm.

She apologized when I nearly fell out of the bed, but I was far too pleased to see her once more to be upset over her starting me.

Almost a week had passed since I had seen her and I missed her company more than I expected. Perched beside me, she assumed her motherly role without missing a beat and made certain I was properly fed before she rattled off her duties for the day.

"How are your feet?" I made sure to ask once she took a breath.

"Good enough for rehearsals," she said.

I couldn't tell by her tone if she was glad to be back on the stage or disappointed in returning so soon.

"My mother is sending a trunk of my brother's clothes," Madeline said, abruptly changing the subject. She took a sip of coffee and stared at me. I nodded in return, having no idea why she had shared this information.

"The clothing is for you," she said.

"Oh." I stared at my cup of coffee, which I did not particularly care for, but sipped nonetheless because I dared not hurt Madeline's feelings. "That is very generous."

Madeline smiled and shook her head as she looked me over. "I have truly missed seeing you," she said as she placed her hand over mine and gave it a gentle squeeze.

My heart swelled at her words and soft, motherly touch. Each time she paid me a compliment or looked me in the eye, I felt no different than anyone else in the world. She made me feel ordinary-and out of all the feelings I had experienced in my brief lifetime, I enjoyed feeling like an ordinary boy.

"And I have good news for you," Madeline said with a sly smile before she took another sip of coffee and eyed me over the rim of her cup.

I immediately sat up straighter and felt static in my veins. "The performance," I said, eagerly awaiting her words.

She nodded. "Two pieces of good news, actually."

"Please tell me." If she made me wait a moment longer I would most certainly implode from excitement.

"There are still rumors of a ghost in the theater, so for the time being, one of the opera boxes is out of commission. The box door was locked from the inside during the last performance, which no one can explain, so Cathedra will not perform unless the curtain for the box seats are closed and the seats blessed."

"Box seats," I said. I had no idea what that meant, however, in my mind I envisioned overturned boxes serving as seats.

Madeline nodded. "No one will go near Box Five until a priest has blessed the seats, which I heard will not be until opening night for the press. I suspect this will be used for publicity."

I didn't care one bit if I shared the box with a ghost. I merely wanted to see a live theater performance.

"And your other news?" I asked.

Madeline's smile widened. "I do believe your cousin is a patron of the theater."

Her words caught me off guard. I had all but forgotten my cousin Joshua Kimmer and now that Madeline had possibly found him, I didn't know what to think.

"A patron?"

"Yes, he has season tickets for all performances in the orchestra section, stage right I believe."

"How did you discover this?"

Madeline shrugged. "There was talk of inviting the most generous patrons to a ball after opening night as well as a special performance by Senora di Carlo at another time. He was on the list, near the very top. Why, the most prominent families are the Bernards, Prideux, and of course the Marquis de Chagny, but Kimmer was listed after our top three donors. There was a second name with it, a business partner, perhaps. I believe the name was di Cambri? Does that sound familiar?"

I shook my head. Other than my brief time spent with my uncle, I was far removed from the rest of my family.

"There is a good chance I've met your cousin before and did not remember him or perhaps he only recently became a supporter. There is a list of hundreds of patrons and of course, the secretary has the list."

I nodded and considered her words, wondering what a wealthy patron of the arts would think of his deformed, lowly cousin now living beneath the Opera House as a fugitive. I knew little of my blood relative and suspected he knew very little of me as well. Despite my uncle saying he had sent word to his son of our arrival, I wasn't sure I wanted to impose upon him, particularly if he was a top donor to the arts. It was difficult for me to imagine anyone accepting me at all, but a man of higher station particularly seemed impossible to gain favor.

Madeline frowned. "I thought you would be happier."

I forced a smile, afraid I would disappoint her. "This is good news."

Her eyes narrowed. "You do not want to meet him, do you?"

"I do not know if he would want to meet me."

Her gaze flashed momentarily to my scars and she pursed her lips. Without a word, she looked away and laced her fingers together.

"You are family," she said at last.

I wasn't certain if she meant me and my cousin or if she was referring to the relationship that had developed between us, but I did not ask for clarification. I hoped she meant I was like family to her.

When I offered no reply, she looked at me again and tilted her head to the side. "If you would like, I will speak to him first, perhaps get a better idea of his personality." She grinned playfully. "And I will box his ears if he is ill tempered or seems cruel." She made a fist and shook it with a laugh.

"When may I sit on the box?" I asked.

Madeline chuckled to herself and I felt heat in my cheeks as I realized I had apparently misspoke. "Forgive me for laughing. There is no box to sit upon. You will sit in a regular seat in an opera box. I forget you have not attended live theater before, at least not in a place such as this."

She explained how the theater was set up and gestured with her hands how there were a total of sixteen opera boxes, eight on each side of the theater.

"Who would normally have access to Box Five?" I asked.

Madeline swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood. "The Marquis de Chagny and their entire brood of children have paid for Boxes Four, Five and Six for as long as I have been here," she answered. "They could probably buy the entire theater and half of Paris if they so desired. They certainly have enough members of their family to run the city."

Her words intrigued me. "How did they come into such fortune?" I asked.

"Come to think of it, I'm not entirely certain, although I imagine for most people it's being in the right place at the right time."

"How many children do they have?"

Madeline looked at the ceiling and thought a moment. "Well, the de Chagnys have six daughters and one son, and their son Marius, the Comte, married a woman by the name of Margarita Lourette, and they have two sons, Pierre and Philippe. They look like twins, but they are three years apart. Both are very handsome," she added.

"Do you know them personally?" I asked.

"No, not at all. They are one of the wealthiest family in all of Paris," Madeline answered as though it were quite obvious. "In fact, the Marquis himself funded the entire-"

She stopped abruptly and looked away, appearing somewhat flustered. I stared at her, eyes narrowed.

"I beg your pardon?"

Madeline gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "He brings much entertainment to the city. They are quite generous, and while the family is unable to use their box seats, you could definitely-"

"Entertainment?" I asked, cutting off her words. "Such as the traveling fair?" My hands balled into fists and nostrils flared with a spike of anger that seared through me.

Without looking at me she nodded. "And Cathedra di Carlo, the Marmello sisters, our conductor, famous painters...The Marquis is a supporter of the arts and entertainment from all walks of life. I have heard he plans to donate his fortune to bring the Ninth Exposition to France. Can you believe it? Not a single person in the whole de Chagny family has the slightest hint of talent and yet they wholeheartedly support artists."

"They are the saints of Paris," I said sarcastically. Garouche had been quite pleased by the amount a benefactor had promised to pay for his show to perform a stint in the capital of France. He had a way of embellishing the quality of the performances to make it sound as though he catered to royalty when in reality the crowds were littered with street rats and their snot-nosed brats in small towns and the seedy outskirts of larger cities. What he provided was oddities, attractions in dimly lit tents that promised to horrify and intrigue.

I wondered if the Marquis had personally attended with his family-or if my own cousin had stepped foot in the tent.

Madeline rolled her eyes. "I should not have said a word." She thumped me on the arm. "And you should not be so quick to anger."

She was correct on both accounts.

"You should know the Marquis denounced the gypsies when he saw what sort of rubbish they wanted to pass off as entertainment." She paused and stared at the wrinkled bed sheets. "He heard the man running the fair was quite heavy-handed with some of the younger performers. They will not be permitted within the City of Paris ever again."

"They have been run out of many places."

Madeline did not seemed surprised by my words. "The only show worth seeing takes place right here in this building." She motioned for me to stand. "I will step out so you may dress yourself."

My eyes widened and lips parted. "Where are we going?"

"The theater, of course" she answered. "It's Sunday and most people are at church and out of the building for the day. We shall have the whole place to ourselves."

I practically sprang out of bed. Madeline giggled at my exuberance and tossed a pillow that had tumbled onto the ground back upon the bed. She walked out and promised to wait in the hall. Once I hastily dressed, I flung open the cellar door and Madeline jumped back.

"That was a swift costume change," she teased.

"I do not wish to waste a single moment."

Her face lit up. "To the best theater in all of Europe, Monsieur. Follow me."

I had no idea what to expect when setting my eyes upon the theater for the first time. Madeline led me down the servant's hall, her steps light and graceful and her face beaming even in the meager light. Once we reached the end of the hall, she paused and held her finger to her lips.

Breath held, I watched as she slipped out of the doorway. I caught a glimpse of a white pillar before the door shut, and one small peek at a world I longed to explore sent my heart racing.

"You there," I heard a male voice call. "What you be doin' here?"

Just as swiftly as my pulse quickened, I felt as though my heart would stop. Every fiber of my being turned rigid with the fear of being caught, and as much as I wanted to turn and flee, I recognized the voice and froze with my jaw clenched and hands balled into fists.

"Bouquet," Madeline said, her voice conveying every ounce of disgust I felt inside once I realized who addressed her.

"Come to see me, have ya?"

"I was looking for the Mistress," Madeline lied.

"Haven't seen her." Bouquet released a resonating belch. "Perhaps I could be of service to ya."

"I think not."

Another door opened and closed with a slam that made me jump. "Joseph!" a man yelled. "Get out of here with that bottle, do you hear me? What have I told you?"

"Sorry, sir, won't happen again," Bouquet shouted back. "I was leaving for the day."

"What are you doing here, girl?" the other man snapped.

I left my slippers behind," Madeline said. "May I search for them?"

The man let out an exasperated sigh. "You damned dancers always losing your shoes. Be quick about it! I don't want people wandering about the theater, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Monsieur Ciampa. Thank you."

Several seconds passed and a white-faced Madeline opened the servant's door, her eyes wide. "Sweet Jesus," she said under her breath. "That was not exactly how I expected this day to go."

My legs refused to work. "Are you certain we should continue?" I asked.

"No one will dare enter with Ciampa prowling around. He is the theater manager's son and if you did not guess by that brief exchange, he is not the most welcoming individual."

"What was he doing here on a Sunday?" I questioned.

"Probably looking for Bouquet. They suspect he is up to no good."

"He's still in the theater, is he not?"

"He will follow Bouquet, I think."

She motioned for me to follow her out of the hall and into the theater, and once I passed through the doorway, my mouth dropped open. The sheer enormity of the space left me awestruck and I had no idea what to take in first. The blood red curtain were partially drawn open, the shiny stage floor only partially visible. The rows of dark red seats and ornate matching carpet led to the orchestra pit and stretched back as far as I could see to several wooden double doors.

"The box seats," Madeline said as she pointed to the neat rows of compartments on the sides of the stage with their own curtains drawn.

This was indeed the gate to Heaven, I thought to myself. There were even angels painted on the high ceilings, the images aglow with the light of several small chandeliers surrounding a much larger glass chandelier sparkling high above the stage.

"Let's go up," Madeline suggested.

My mind could not process the whole theater, which was even more exquisite than Madeline had described. Mouth agape, I trailed a step behind Madeline, gaze sweeping the decorated walls in a desperate attempt to memorize each detail. Surely we traveled a path only taken by the upper echelon of Paris, each ornate detail made only for the eyes of royalty. I felt quite privileged to be in such a beautiful place, like I walked through a dream.

Three sets of stairs up, we stood before a golden braided rope with a sign that read _No Admittance_ , which hung from the door handle.

Madeline defiantly pulled the sign from the door and entered the forbidden area with me at her heels. The room was quite dark, and had there not been a wall sconce just outside the door, I would not have been able to see Madeline directly in front of me. While I stood with my hands clasped behind my back, she pulled back the heavy black curtain and held it open for me to follow her.

"Box Five," she said.

Once the curtain closed behind me, we stood in almost complete darkness. The floor beneath the thick carpeting groaned as Madeline stepped forward and nudged a second black curtain before us open. With the second curtain open, we stared out into the empty theater together.

I truly feared breathing or moving a muscle as I wondered if this was nothing more than a dream. Wide-eyed, I drank in the ostentatious beauty of the gilded pillars, chandeliers, and expertly crafted woodwork. In my mind I filled each seat with prominent figures from around Europe dressed in their finest suits and dresses. I imagined ladies on the arms of gentleman making their way down the aisles to their seats with ushers leading the way. I could picture the conductor in the orchestra pit thumbing through music while the musicians tuned their instruments. Every inch of this building was dedicated to music and art in the grandest form. No wonder Apollo resided atop the building.

Amidst the beautiful chaos of performers and patrons, I pictured myself in a tailored suit, hair slicked back and violin in hand. Behind the heavy red curtain, a throng of actors and dancers waited for the show to start-including Madeline. I imagined her peeking out from behind the curtain and waving to me, a small gesture of encouragement from one performer to another. Home, I thought to myself. I belonged here in the swell of imagination. My heart beat faster, the music I composed in my mind curling through my thoughts.

"What do you think?" Madeline asked.

I turned toward her and our eyes met. My emotions soared and I was certain I had never experienced such elation in my lifetime. "I have never seen anything so beautiful. There are no words fitting to express how grateful I am to you for this opportunity. You have truly made me feel like a different person."

Madeline beamed as though I had paid her the greatest compliment. "When the theater is dark and the stage is lit, silence falls over the whole auditorium for only a moment before the first notes flood your senses. There is nothing in the world like the exhilarating start of a show. I never tire of that sensation."

I thought of Daae's violin collecting dust within the cellar, and the woman who looked like a basset hound in the pub where I had mustered the courage to play before a small gaggle of musicians with my uncle's encouragement. The smoke-filled tavern was nothing compared to he this theater. Not even the brightly colored tents owned by the Garouche family could ever be as grand as this stage. Indeed, not a single person who had looked at me in horror would have ever suspected I would end up here, in the Opera House.

Indeed, I could not believe where I stood.

The spotlight had been mine for months in the showcase of oddities with its garish displays. I could still picture every detail of the first time I had been chained in a small iron cage, my wrists and ankles sore from the tight shackles. My neck hurt from the heavier bindings they had placed at my throat as though they feared I would escape. Each wound was fresh from the bruises against my knuckles to the welts on my back and stomach. With my knees drawn up to my chest, I took inventory of the cigar burns along the tender flesh of my neck and crook of my elbow.

Off-key music played outside the tent, accompanied by the combined scents of different foods and unwashed bodies of performers and patrons.

The straw was wet and moldy where I crouched in the corner, hood covering my ghastly face. I had the misguided notion that if I remained still no one would notice me. I had no idea I was the final attraction of horror for the endless crowds wandering through the tents, that people paid extra for a glimpse at the Devil's Son.

White hot humiliation seeped into the marrow of my bones the moment Garouche yanked off the hood and pulled my head back. Dozens of faces stared back at me through the bars, women gasped and men cursed and spit on me for what had felt like an eternity. There were so many of them, and each one was perfectly capable of reaching through the bars and grabbing me. After several weeks of men snatching me from the ground and driving me into the bars, Garouche was forced to provide a larger cage in order to keep me alive.

On that first night, however, nothing truly prevented any number of men from doing me harm. Pain resonated through my muscles and nerves, and after several long moments of being held up before the onlookers, numbness set in. Once they were satisfied and had thrown rotting pears and tomatoes at me, after Garouche beat me into submission for their amusement, the crowds dissipated and I crawled back into the corner and placed the hood over my face, my knuckles swollen and bloody from attempting to shield myself from each blow.

I had never experienced anything so humiliating in all of my life, and well before I had recovered emotionally or physically, a new stream of onlookers flooded the tent and the horror began anew.

That first time and each subsequent performance I wished to lay beside my uncle's body, close my eyes, and never wake again. Death had to be easier than this existence, lacking pain and misery. Over and over, from morning until late at night, the endless cycle of pain, humiliation, and numbness became my living hell, my purgatory for sins I had not committed.

I lived in perpetual terror. Each day I saw the sun rise, I could not help but feel a sense of deep disappointment as I knew what was in store for me.

"Are you unwell?" Madeline asked as she took hold of my arm just below my elbow. "Your complexion is sallow. You should sit a moment."

I inhaled sharply, my hands on the ledge of Box Five as a shiver ran up my spine. Cold sweat dampened my brow, which I wiped away with the heel of my hand. Taking a step back, I blinked and steadied my breath before I realized Madeline had taken a seat and was in the midst of a daydream.

Legs weak, I sat beside her and noticed a small brass placard with an inscription bearing the name de Chagny, the very man who had inadvertently funded my trip to Paris.

Rather than anger I felt a slight sense of gratitude as I understood without his funding, I could have been anywhere else. Perhaps my desire to join my uncle in death would have become a reality, but as I sat in the theater beside Madeline, I was-perhaps for the first time in my life-grateful to be alive.

"Your eyes change color," Madeline said softly. "Did you know that?"

I shook my head, having no idea what she meant.

"They were more blue-green the moment you stepped into the theater," she said. "When you are upset they are more green. Almost jade. I noticed this after we saw Bouquet in the hall." She leaned forward, and I knew without her saying a word that my eyes appeared green again.

"I will make every attempt to keep my eyes more blue," I vowed.

Madeline grunted and ran her hand along my shoulder as she smiled at me. One soft touch and I relaxed, the horrors playing out in my mind fading at last.

"Shall we leave?" she asked.

I shook my head. "A moment longer," I said. "Please."

Madeline sat back and sighed. "I do enjoy the view from here. Ah, to be a de Chagny! They have truly been blessed beyond words."


	15. Not Beyond Saving

This chapter is short, but it may require a tissue. Also, shout out to Nada, who is the reason why I went back to finish my stories and write some new ones. She has been instrumental (no pun intended) for this story being written and this chapter in particular. Thank you, Nada!

Chapter 15

Seeing the theater with my own eyes fueled my desire to attend a live performance, and the anticipation threatened to consume my every waking moment. Madeline swore to me she would make certain I was able to attend, although she admitted there was not much of a plan as to how this would come to fruition. Still, I fixated on the idea as we traveled through the back corridors, and before we parted ways, I requested something to tide me over before the performance.

"You want the music?" Madeline asked, taken aback by my request. She stood with the lantern in her right hand, left hand on her hip, and head cocked to the side. "For the entire opera?"

"I would like to familiarize myself with the work before the performance."

"But that will spoil the surprise."

She had yet to realize I was terribly impatient.

"Not for me."

We had made our way back to the door at the top of the five flights of stairs after an hour of sitting in the empty theater without so much as a mouse crossing our path. With other duties to attend, I knew Madeline would take her leave, but I wanted to make my single request in hopes she would be able to obtain a copy and deliver it to me at least a day or two before I saw my first opera.

"I will see what I can do," she replied with a shrug.

Her answer disappointed me, as I wanted a definitive answer, but I thanked her all the same.

"I will visit you Tuesday evening," she promised as she affectionately squeezed my shoulder.

With a nod, I took the lantern from her grasp, thanked her for the adventure and made my way alone down the stairway to my home where I immediately removed Daae's violin from the box I had found it in weeks earlier.

For a long moment I stared at the instrument and the bow, still mesmerized by the workmanship. Merely holding the violin in my clammy hands seemed somewhat forbidden and yet I could not bear to set it down. What good was such a finely crafted violin when left to languish in a cave? This violin deserved a better fate.

 _What are you waiting for, child?_ I heard my uncle's raspy voice in the back of my mind. _Play it, for God's sake!_

I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and put the bow to the strings with no tune in mind. Eyes closed, I let instinct guide me until the notes arranged themselves in my head and the melody whined through the cavern. The acoustics made me shiver as the somber music reverberated through the depths and surrounded me, each note like a needle piercing into my heart.

 _Where did that come from, my son?_

"From my suffering," I said under my breath, surprised by my own words.

That was the sound of years of pent up sadness longing for a voice. Words would not suffice such deep-rooted misery; what I had felt inside for so long could not be expressed with the tongue. This needed to be felt and released, a ripple of mourning cast out into the darkness of the lake.

 _And now that you have rid yourself of this suffering, what will you play next?_

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I wondered if I would truly ever be free of such misery. The music inside of me came out angry at first, harsh and stinging like the flash of indignation that grappled with depression.

My hands trembled, body started to crumple and I nearly dropped the bow. Doubled over, I thought of how many times in my life I had attempted to shield myself from a beating I knew deep down I did not deserve. My vision wavered, my fingers turned numb as panic threatened to drive me to my knees.

Chest heaving, I had not truly realized how much rage I carried, much heavier and more foreboding than my sadness. Deep down inside, I wanted to destroy something, but I feared I would ultimately destroy myself.

 _You have every right to feel angry._

"I am sick to death of being enraged," I whispered. My bottom lip quivered, the tears slipping freely down my face. "Please tell me what to do, Uncle."

Agonizing seconds passed and the voice in my head went silent. Reduced to a sobbing mess, I knelt and started to place the violin back inside the box, my self worth non-existent and body cold and numb to the core. My anger drove away the memory I held dear and I felt more lost than the day I had buried my beloved uncle in the woods.

From the corner of my eye I spotted a vase with flowers Madeline had brought for me as well as a cream-colored lace runner and a stack of books to occupy my time. Beside the books, a box of chocolates and a couple of pears she had told me to eat because she did not want me consuming so many sweets. The contradiction of candy and fruit in the same wicker basket brought a smile to my lips as I pictured Madeline with one hand on her hip and her finger wagging at me.

I wiped away the tears and stared at the gifts she had brought, small tokens of her affection I struggled to comprehend as my thoughts flooded with all of the reasons she should have turned away from me.

And yet from the food in the pantry to the very clothes I wore, Madeline had treated me with kindness, and her actions pushed away the darkness threatening to take hold. I loved her in a way I could not comprehend but needed more than I had ever realized.

Once again I took up the violin, but this time the melodies in my veins lacked anger and sadness. The warmth of the sun on the rooftop flowed through the tips of my fingers and into my music.

I played for the joy I had experienced the moment I stepped into the theater and the acceptance I felt each time Madeline met my eye and placed her hand over mine. When I was near her, she made me forget I was different from the rest of the world. Her smile brightened my dark world, and the way she treated me like I was family filled the crevices in my deeply damaged heart.

I played for my deceased uncle, for the first person who had ever loved me, but it was no requiem. I thought of his hand on the top of my head and the confidence he bestowed upon me. More tears fell, but the taste of salt on my lips was accompanied by a deep sense of relief that there was goodness in the world and I was allowed to experience it. He would have loved Madeline, I knew. Perhaps he would have thought she should have been more strict with me, but he would have appreciated her nonetheless.

I played music I would never play again, the deep wounds no one could see bled dry with each note leaving my body. Once the bow left the strings for the final time, I felt as though the sound had baptized me and my mind and soul were cleansed at last.

 _You are not beyond healing, Erik. You are not beyond hope._

For as long as I could remember I felt as though I always stood on the precipice of destruction. The smallest tap and I would tumble over the edge and never recover. For years I had stood with my toes over the edge, and yet now I felt as though Madeline had done what my uncle attempted and reeled me back to safety.

Emotionally spent, I wrapped the violin in its cloth, nestled it inside the box, and placed it on the table beside the flower vase. The air felt colder and a rose petal felt from the long stem and onto the cloth covering the violin. I stared at the velvety red petal, the edges dried and shriveled, cast out from the fresher buds still clinging to the stem. The rest of the rose had also started to blacken and curl at the edges, and eventually each delicate petal would join the single one that had already fallen.

"Thank you," I said to the shadow haunting my thoughts as I wrapped my arms around my chest and hugged myself tightly. I was certain he had sent Madeline to me, one final act to save me. "Thank you Uncle Alak."


	16. Hours before the Opera

Chapter 16

Madeline dropped a thick stack of papers bound with string on the table with a heavy thud and gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I went to great lengths to obtain a copy," she said as she tossed her thick braid over her shoulder. "First violin will be quite displeased when he cannot find his music."

My eyes grew wide as I looked from the opera music to her narrowed, slightly perturbed gaze. I could not contain my excitement as I stood, grinning like a fool, and took up the pages, hugging them to my chest.

"Thank you," I said as I carefully placed the bound pages on the table and pulled on the string. Filled with giddy excitement, I sat on the edge of my seat and began rifling through the opera.

Madeline crossed her arms and watched me in silence as I ran my finger along the pages and followed the melody of the overture. Music swelled in my mind and pulsed through my veins. I felt as though Beethoven had written each note for me to discover, a hidden, masterful message.

"This is wonderful," I murmured. "Graceful and yet powerful."

"How did you become so interested in music?" she asked, unknowingly interrupting my thoughts.

I pulled my gaze away from the music and met her eye briefly. "I had nothing else," I answered with a shrug, my attention turned back to the papers set before me. "My parents did not care for me and no one else knew I existed until my uncle took me from their home."

When she did not reply, I glanced up at her and saw Madeline frown and look away as though embarrassed by my revelation.

"I apologize if my question upset you. That was not my intention."

We remained in silence for a moment with Madeline standing with her arms crossed and eyes averted. I had not meant to make her uncomfortable with my answer and feared what she thought of me.

"Music brings me great joy," I continued. "No matter how alone I felt within my parent's home, the sounds from the tavern in the summer at dusk brought an escape. I could listen for hours and imagine a different life far greater than the one I had been given. For days I could carry the tunes in my mind, sometimes rearranging the melody or changing the tempo. The darkness is not so heavy when there is music in my head."

I forced a smile and turned the page, though I had stopped following the music once I thought back to the seaside village and my parents' home.

Madeline smiled wanly. "Have you ever played an instrument?"

Her question made me genuinely smile, and without saying a word, I unwrapped Daae's violin, stood from the table, and took a deep breath. Eyes closed, I played a portion of the music I had finished reading from memory.

Madeline remained silent, her lips parted and eyes wide in shock when I finally looked at her once more. "You...how did you do that?" she asked at last. She looked from me to the music and back again. "You did not miss a single note."

"I should think not," I replied with a great deal of arrogance behind my words.

"You have heard the overture before then? Memorized it, perhaps?"

I shook my head. "I swear to you I have not."

Madeline ran her hands along her arms. "Gooseflesh," she said. "Do you see it?" Her smile widened. "Your skills are remarkable. You must play more."

At once she perched herself at the edge of the nearest chair and clasped her hands, eyeing me eagerly for more entertainment. My impatient audience of one went from disbelief to demanding more music. Pride swelled within me, a sensation so foreign I barely knew how to react.

"Do you want me to play more from Fidelio or-"

"Play whatever you wish," Madeline insisted. She clasped her hands in her lap and sat perched on the edge of her seat as though she could not wait to hear more. Her enthusiasm truly pleased me, and I relished the opportunity to impress her with music.

I thought a moment and played from memory a tune I had heard frequently as a child staring out from the cellar, filthy hands wrapped around the iron bars of my prison. The music was nothing sophisticated or fancy-and from my recollection was accompanied by quite bawdy lyrics and raucous cheering, but the melody was quite playful. I moved to the music, my actions choppy as I had seen the violinist from afar as he teased the women in the crowd. Madeline grinned at my display, and once I finished playing, she stood and clapped in appreciation.

"Did you make that up just now?" Madeline asked as I placed the bow back into the box. Her light eyes looked brighter than before, her features more relaxed than they had been in weeks. I looked at her and realized I was not the only one who had escaped from my life with the help of music.

I shook my head. "A tune from long ago. They played this song several times a night in the tavern in the summer."

"What is it about?"

"A prostitute, I think."

Madeline's cheeks immediately flushed and her eyes grew wide. She leaned forward and gently swatted my hand. "Shame on you using your God given gifts for something so...lewd."

I chuckled to myself. "Mozart next time, then?"

"I will find you more music," she promised. "As much as I can carry."

"There are crates down here filled with symphonies and past operas. Daae's collection, I assume."

"Your collection," she corrected. "You are more talented than Monsieur Daae. Without a doubt you are more talented than everyone in the orchestra combined."

I appreciated her flattery more than she could have possibly known. In my heart, I wished to excel in music. "One day I will…" _Play in the theater,_ I wanted to say.

My voice trailed away as I realized the absurdity of my unspoken words. No amount of talent would see me to the orchestra pit. One look at my face and the Opera House managers would send me away out of fear and disgust. The thought knifed through me, how cruel it seemed to have such passion and no outlet.

"One day you will certainly write your very own opera," Madeline finished my thought for me with her own fairytale spin. "The greatest work the world has ever known. You could truly write whatever you wished and people would flood the theater to hear it. I mean it sincerely."

Her enthusiasm pulled me out of my dismal thoughts, and before I could sulk, Madeline continued to praise my abilities and ask me to play for each night after supper. I nodded in compliance, her obedient servant willing to please. After all she had done for me, I longed to return the favor in any way I could be of service.

"I cannot believe you did not tell me of your extraordinary talent in playing the violin," Madeline admonished. "What other secrets are you hiding?"

"None, I swear it." Besides, perhaps, a few tricks I had learned from the circus, but tricks and pure talent were hardly the same.

"Did your uncle teach you to play?"

I nodded readily. "He taught me to read music and encouraged me to play the violin. He heard music in his mind, even when there is none playing. We were very similar in that aspect." I shrugged and nervously licked my lips. "I hear music all the time."

Madeline eyed me curiously, which made me increasingly self-conscious. Strange, I expected her to say, perhaps unnatural, even. For fear of being more peculiar I had not told anyone else of the notes fluttering through my mind. I was certain the gypsies would have considered it madness. My parents would not have believed me as my father considered me brainless and my mother was usually too consumed by laudenum to know when I was present.

My uncle, on the other hand, also heard complete songs and simple melodies. We said nothing to one another, but often I saw him tap his fingers along invisible piano keys and knew he played music in his mind. Sometimes, when he would catch me watching him, he would smile, wink at me, and ask me to play for him.

"I used to dream of dancing," Madeline said wistfully. "I imagined what it would be like to be the principal ballerina." She extended her right leg and pointed her toes down. "Nothing more than a fantasy now."

"I will make you principal of my opera," I said.

She grinned back, her cheeks flushed. "Perhaps you should make a decision after you see _Fidelio_. For all you know I have the grace of a cow."

"Your first performance is tomorrow?"

Madeline nodded. "Whether we are ready or not."

"When may I attend?"

"Thursday evening," Madeline said. "I am honestly more excited for you to attend than I am for our opening."

My heart hammered and I nodded, attempting to harness my overwhelming excitement. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to attend a performance and spend an evening surrounded by music.

"Box Five and Box Six will be vacant, which means there will be no one near that part of the theater for the duration of the performance, however, your view will remain somewhat obstructed as the curtain must remain mostly closed."

I nodded readily. As long as I could hear the orchestra and performers, I did not care much if I were blindfolded.

"And you should stay within the servant's hall until the theater is darkened and the music starts. I feel this would be safest for you to remain unseen."

"I will," I promised, more than ready to sign away my life if meant attending the performance.

She reached into her dress pocket and slid a small slip of paper across the table. "Here," she said. "To make your first opera official."

I plucked the ticket from the table and carefully examined the printed text stating the time, place, and name of the performance. The moment I had longed for now became tangible and real.

"I will keep this someplace safe always," I vowed.

Madeline smiled back at me. "I am happy for you," she said. "Truly, my friend."

I spent my time impatiently pouring over the music as I awaited the second performance of _Fidelio_. Madeline explained she would not be down to visit after opening night, which left me somewhat disappointed as I longed to hear every detail of what happened on the stage. She did, however, pay me a visit early in the morning prior to the second day and made certain I knew my way through the maze of halls and to the opera boxes.

Although the halls were fairly straightforward, Madeline fussed terribly and made me promise several times I would be cautious and return to the cellar immediately if I was spotted.

She also brought a canvas laundry bag of mens clothing direct from England, which had belonged to her late brother Thomas.

"Are you certain you wish me to take these?" I asked as I loosened the drawstring and peered inside. The clothing was neatly folded and smelled faintly of tobacco and cologne. The scent was pure sophistication, I thought to myself.

Madeline nodded. "My parents did not wish to see his clothing left in a sealed room. They wished it put to use and I told them I had someone in mind."

"Your parents are quite generous and thoughtful."

"You would like them," she assured me.

If they were anything like Madeline, I was certain I would find them quite amiable.

"How was opening night?" I asked.

Her lips curled into a wide smile. "Perfect," she beamed. "And tonight will be even better."

I admired Madeline's seemingly endless ability to find the good in every situation. With her hand gestures and facial expressions, she made me feel as though every facet of the theater was the best in the world. Indeed I was quite convinced she was correct.

"Find something suitable to wear for tonight," Madeline instructed as she walked toward the exit.

I had no idea what was considered suitable and stood obtusely with the canvas bag in hand. Since no one would see me, I wondered why it would matter, but I nodded nonetheless.

Madeline paused, her fingers grazing the door handle as she looked back at me. "White shirt, brown trousers with matching coat, and blue waistcoat with matching cravat," she said. "It's toward the top. You will look very handsome in those colors."

Heat rose to my cheeks as I felt myself blush. "Thank you."

She smiled back at me, clearly aware her words embarrassed me.. "Do not be late. Promise me."

"I swear it."

Once she exited, I deposited the contents of the canvas bag onto my bed and sorted through the clothing with wide-eyed excitement at my good fortune. My uncle had given me spare clothing before we had left his home, but what he had offered me-though quite generous-did not compare to the tailored suits and clean, barely worn shirts and trousers sent from England. Strange how different I felt now that the months of wearing filthy, tattered rags in the traveling fair were behind me. I was a world away from the grotesque monster languishing in a cage. Perhaps not quite a gentleman, but still far removed from my living hell.

There were still hours before the performance, but I dressed myself as Madeline had suggested and looked myself over in the mirror. I swallowed hard and ran my hands along the damask fabric of the waistcoat, fingers circling the fabric-covered buttons. The cravat was lopsided, but I ignored my imperfections and appreciated the near perfect fit of the long sleeved shirt, vest, and trousers.

I imagined myself in the orchestra pit on the eve of my very first public performance and walked to the table to fetch my violin. With a respectful bow to the imaginary maestro, I took my place-first violin, naturally-and played from memory a piece of music I had discovered in one of the boxes. Once I finished, I envisioned the crowd on their collective feet as a thunderous applause filled the theater.

Anticipation vibrated through me, but the sensation was snuffed out as I looked at my watch. I groaned, unable to comprehend how eight more hours stood between me and my first experience at the opera. I dragged my feet across the floor and removed my opera clothing, which I hung with great care, and donned a much simpler shirt and trouser for the time being. Placing all of my new garments into a chest of drawers took no more than twelve minutes, and as I stared at my watch, I felt highly irritated about the passage of time.

Boredom did not suit me, and yet for most of my life I had felt lack of mental stimulation weigh upon my shoulders. Beneath my parents' home I occupied my lonely days with various items they had discarded within the cellar. While other children had tops to spin and dolls as imaginary companions, I stacked tin cans atop wooden boxes and pretended I lived in my own small village with a stage as the centerpiece. Spools of thread became performers, and with a few tools I found stashed away and a broken clock, I managed to make the pieces turn and dance upon cogs hidden beneath a flat board that served as their stage. Wire fastened around pegs became a crude instrument, and for hours on end I entertained myself.

But I was no longer a small child easily sated with primitive toys. Flat on my back with my feet dangling over the edge of the bed, I stared at the beads of water which clung to the stalactites. In the candlelight the cavern ceiling sparkled like an endless chandelier that spanned the length of the cavern.

With a heavy sigh, I rolled onto my belly and faced toward the lake. Eyes narrowed, I studied the ripples in the water created by falling droplets and imagined each one as a note. I moved my fingers along the blanket as a waltz flowed through my mind.

All at once in the back of my mind I saw Gustave Daae in his boat, the oars skimming the smooth surface of the water as he rowed toward the distant shore. He wore a heavy cloak and a wide-brimmed hat with a peacock feather jutting out from the side. The hat obscured his features, but still I saw his devilish smile. He beckoned me to follow him.

Daae's treasure, I thought to myself. There was so much more to be discovered on the other side of the lake. I could practically hear him calling my name, and although it was not quite the siren on the high seas my uncle had spoke of, I felt drawn to it nevertheless.

My heart was set on adventure, and my mind could not tolerate a single moment longer of boredom. I sat upright and grabbed a lantern, which I set at the very edge of the water, then walked the length of the room and retrieved a wooden crate, which I placed on the table. With the use of a hammer I broke off the lid and left it beside the lantern, then found a leather sack in which to hold my clothing.

Eight hours was more than sufficient time to swim across the lake and back again, especially now that I was familiar with the distance and terrain. I stripped down, folded my clothes and secured them into the leather sack, which I slung over my shoulder. Lantern in hand and board in the other, I waded into the lake and paused when I was waist deep in the water. Once the water lapped against my hips, I placed the lantern and sack onto the board, pleased to discover it acted as a raft for my belongings.

As I inched deeper, I clung to the board with both hands and pushed off the bottom of the lake with both feet and glided forward with ease. The board wobbled a bit, but my miniature raft stayed afloat.

"Daae," I said under my breath, each kick of my feet propelling me forward. "I will find your hidden treasure, I swear it."

Once I made it to the other side, I placed my belongings on the shore and pulled myself out of the water. Naked and shivering, I took up the lantern and gazed around in silence, my shoulders hunched and teeth chattering. I waited until a decent puddle formed at my feet and the water was mostly squeezed from my hair before donning my dry clothing. There was a bit of a draft on this side of the lake, and I regretted the oversight of both a towel and my pocket watch, but I told myself it added to the perils of the adventure.

Lantern held high, I plodded along the narrow shoreline with nothing more than my shadow as company. Several minutes passed and the open lake came to an end at an iron grate blocking a stone archway large enough for the boat I had seen previously to pass through. The sound of falling water hinted at a drop off beyond the barrier, and as I crouched down on all fours, I saw a glint of sunlight and wondered if the lake eventually led to the River Seine.

Before I could climb to my feet again, I heard a _thump_. The unexpected noise drew my attention to the natural wall on my right. Another _thump_ made me scramble to my feet, but instead of retreating, I crept forward and discovered the source of the noise: a wooden door rocking back and forth on its hinges.

I pressed my fingers against the wood and nudged the door forward just enough to make the same sound as it knocked against the door casing. For a long moment I stood in silence and listened for voices on the other side. At last I reached for the door handle and-to my astonishment-the handle turned and door opened.

A smile touched the corners of my lips as I stood on the threshold and peered into the hall before me. Mice squeaked from the shadows, evading the lantern light and thankfully my own eyes.

Similar to the other side of the lake, the hall was wider than I expected. Instead of stairs, however, there was a long, curving ramp with deep ruts from wheelbarrow and wagon wheels. Scrapes along the walls cut into the stone in spots where carts had hit along the turns, and propped against the landing at the top of the second floor were several pickaxes and smaller hand tools. Cobwebs on the tools revealed whatever work had been done here was either completed or abandoned.

My fingers skimmed along the stone wall until I reached a lever with a heavy chain leading up into the darkness far above my head and out of sight. Eyes narrowed, I gave the heavy iron contraption a tug but to no avail.

Rather than continue my fruitless efforts, I followed the ramp upwards, surprised at how warm and muggy the air felt compared to the cooler temperature closer to the lake. Sweat beaded my brow and I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand as I reached the second turn in the long ramp and continued on. There were empty torch holders and hooks for lanterns every twenty paces or so, which led to me to believe this had been quite the bustling work site at one point.

By the third ramp I reached a storage area with empty wagons, various carts, and piles of tools. Several of the carts had _Garnier_ painted in red lettering along the side, as did the barrels and wooden crates stacked one on top of another.

As I looked around the room I noticed two passages; one wide enough for wagons similar to the barn entrance at the rear of the theater, and a smaller doorway with iron bars like a cell. The doorway was chained and secured with a heavy padlock, and the mere sight of the bars sent my thoughts reeling to the traveling fair.

Fear immobilized me and my mouth went dry. I swore I heard music and laughter in the distance, the familiar sounds of the circus. I balled my free hand into a fist, my fingernails pressed into my sweaty palm.

I thought of the names I had been called night after night for months on end, of the weight of the chains on my ankle and the shackles on my wrists. The days melded together, an endless cycle of humiliation and physical torment that should have been buried in the past. But still, weeks later, a single doorway struck fear through me in ways I had not thought possible. The chains were no longer clamped around my flesh but still the heaviness weighed me down.

"No, no, no!" I heard a woman's shrill voice echo through the hall. "Again!"

The sound startled me and I took a step back, my gaze darting around as though the woman would materialize before me.

Light tapping followed her words, followed by a metallic crash above me.

"My word!" the woman shrieked. "Joseph Bouquet, have you any sense at all?"

Her words went unanswered, though I suppose in a way the drunken imbecile did not need to provide further proof.

"Get out of here at once!" the woman shrieked again. "You nearly dropped that lighting fixture on Anne."

Realization hit me that I stood beneath the stage-and that the Anne nearly squashed by a lighting fixture could have been Madeline called by her first name. The thought of my only friend being injured by that worthless fool enraged me.

"That could have been me!" another woman said in a thick Italian accent. "By the grace of God, it was not."

"Off the stage! Off the stage!" the woman with the shrill voice shouted. Their footsteps moved to the left above me, the sound like soft rain on a field. "The Incomparable La Cathedra is here."

Her words were followed by light, somewhat insincere applause. Amused, I smiled to myself as I pictured the plump, red-haired woman from the posters in front of the theater waltzing to the center of the stage in a ball gown showing off her large breasts, diamonds on her neck, and fur coat draped over her shoulders.

I wandered around the room beneath the stage, hoping I would find a suitable spot to hear what apparently was a midday rehearsal. Much to my dismay, their voices seemed the most clear when I stood before the iron bars.

"Beautiful ballet," Cathedra said. "Absolutely ravishing."

"Please, please Senora, would you do us the great honor and sing for us?"

"Si, si, My pleasure, Mistress," Cathedra replied. "A treat for the chorus girls, si?"

More lackluster applause followed her words, then the theater fell silent for such a long time I thought La Cathedra had reconsidered.

In true dramatic flare, she left her audience awaiting her performance, and as she began to sing at last, I held my breath and listened. Gooseflesh rose along my arms as the first notes left her lips. Without thinking I leaned forward, my face pressed to the cold bars.

Her voice was different than any of the female performers I had heard previously. Even muffled through the floor, she sounded exquisit, her range greater than any man or woman I had heard at the tavern or in the traveling fair. Not only did she have the range of a soprano, but she sang with such emotion that I shivered at the sound of her vibrato. While others could carry a tune, The Incomparable Cathedra Di Carlo lived up to her title. I had never heard anyone quite like her.

Before I could process her voice, she ended on a high note that reverberated through the cellar where I stood. It took all of my strength not to shout out, "Brava!" as she ended her impromptu performance.

"You are welcome, you are welcome," La Cathedra said. "We are all stars on the stage! Estrella, as my mother would say, God rest her soul. Ah, she looks down upon me from Heaven, I know it. A true Spanish queen married to the most handsome Italian king, God rest my father's soul as well. Thank you all!"

The other performers applauded at last, and with that, the Incomparable Cathedra graciously thanked them several times as she evidently exited the stage. In my mind I imagined her blowing kisses from her crimson lips, blue eyes barely holding back a flood of tears.

I wondered if she felt a bit crestfallen when the ballet dancers did not shower her with the praise she deserved. Her voice was that of a more mature singer, perhaps someone in the twilight of her best days, but still she was quite impressive and it was clear why there were banners depicting her image at the opera house entrance. Tucked a floor beneath the stage,I regretted that she could not see me and she would never know how much I appreciated her talent. One of the most satisfying parts of playing the violin was sharing the music with others, and I had no doubt Senora di Carlo were akin in that aspect.

My heart raced in anticipation of the upcoming opera. I listened to the soft tap of the dancers on the stage, which was periodically interrupted by the ballet mistress shrieking instructions.

Madeline had not mentioned a rehearsal, and I wondered how she had reacted to the star of the show gracing the stage. While the ballet practiced, I made my way to the double doors wide enough for the wagons and gave the handles a tug. Chains on the opposite side rattled, though the doors separated enough for me to peer through and catch a glimpse of another, much wider incline with visible sunlight at the top. I heard horseshoes clatter against cobblestone, which most likely meant this was an entrance for deliveries.

In my frantic state outside of the theater weeks earlier, I hadn't paid much attention to the building layout with its many entrances meant for performers and deliveries around the back of the building. My sole focus had been a way back into the theater by any means necessary.

"A new adventure for another time," I said to myself. It was time I returned home and prepared for the opera.


	17. The Production of Fidelio

Chapter 17

As the hour drew near, I was equal parts excited and nervous. My stomach was in knots, my mind racing as I paced the floor and checked my pocket watch every few steps, which seemed to make the minutes pass slower.

In the back of my mind I heard my uncle grumble for me to sit still and focus my time on something more productive. At last I conceded to the ghost in my thoughts and set my sights on the crates. Rather than decrease in numbers, I swore somehow the stack became more abundant by the day.

Since I had not yet dressed for the performance, I rolled up my sleeves and surveyed the endless collection. There were several smaller boxes marked _lost and found_ on the side, all of which I had ignored. With an hour to spare, I fixed myself a plate of grapes and cheese to tide me over until a late supper before I opened one of the boxes and rummaged through the contents.

At best, it was odds and ends of mismatched cufflinks, brooches, and a silver ring with an obsidian gemstone that caught my eye. I placed the ring on my right hand and held it out, admiring how the polished stone gleamed in the candlelight. The only jewelry I had seen of this quality had belonged to the young woman I had met while passing through her village with my uncle, the Swan Princess Amelie Batiste.

I wondered what Amelie would have thought of the silver ring. The black stone with flecks of white seemed somewhat fitting to me as I thought of myself as the darkness and Amelie as the glimmer of light like stars in the night sky. I returned the rest of the jewelry to the box, placed the lid on top, and ate my meal while thumbing through _Fidelio_ one last time.

At last I dressed and looked myself over in the mirror. Despite the fine clothing and addition of a ring, I felt naked without something to cover the deformity. With Madeline I had almost forgotten the scars existed, but when I stared at my reflection, every bit of insecurity fertilized with vitriol and loathing had blossomed into undeniable anxiety of leaving the cellar with my face uncovered.

No one would see me, I reasoned. I would slip unnoticed from the servants' hall into the unused box and back again. Not a soul would know I existed-as long as the plan was flawlessly executed.

The what-ifs knotted my stomach until I felt light-headed and sick.

Up until the point in which my uncle had saved me from my own parents, not a single day in my life had passed without a reminder of my ghastly visage. If I were seen, leaving the halls or ascending the stairs to the opera box, I feared not only being cornered, but taken alive and imprisoned as I awaited execution. I would be placed on display once more, the half-beast, half-human carcass the gendarmes had searched night and day to find.

My excitement for the opera turned into a frantic need to find a mask or hood with which to keep my appearance concealed. With trembling hands I tore into a crate of old costumes and wigs, flinging items behind me until I stumbled upon a collection of masquerade ball masks in a large drawstring bag.

Many were brightly colored or decorated with feathers and glossy paint, however, there were a handful of plain masks which I gathered and spread out on the table to examine.

There were plain white masks and black masks, two of which covered the entire face and a half dozen that covered the right side or the left side. The ones that only covered the eyes and nose I returned to the drawstring bag before taking a white half-mask to the mirror and trying it on.

With the scars concealed behind the white leather, I met my own gaze and felt my anxiety ease. I adjusted the wire holding it in place over my ears and swallowed, surprised at how comfortable and lightweight the mask felt, like a second skin. The cheekbone had a bit of paint added as a light blush while the brow was also quite elegantly noticeable and tinted brown. Instead of stark white and plain, the mask appeared somewhat natural, I thought to myself.

The first mask I had worn as a child was little more than a crude piece of wood tied to a string that covered my whole face. I could not have been much older than four years of age when my father had shoved the scrap of wood against my chest and told me I was a loathsome monster. I could not recall his exact words as he told me to cover my grotesque face, but he made it abundantly clear that I was a burden and the rest of the world would not show me an ounce of kindness. An evil, disgusting wretch, he would say time and again before he spit on me.

The words hurt far worse than I cared to admit. Every time I dared meet my own gaze in the mirror, I felt as though he stood behind me and criticized my every move. Nothing quite frightened me like his deep-set, penetrating glare.

My chest tightened at the thought of my father, but I refused to allow his memory to ruin my mood on such an important evening. This new mask was more comfortable than I expected and hid the scars in a way that allowed a new sense of freedom. My father had forced me to wear the first mask and Garouche had made me cover my face merely to entice the crowd, but this mask had been carefully crafted in a theater and stowed away with an impressive collection of costume pieces.

With one last look in the mirror, I felt less concealed and more complete. At last I turned away, clenched my fists at my sides, and took a deep breath as I exited the cavern and made my way up through the cellar and toward the dark halls to the theater. I turned down the lantern before exiting into the hall and left it on a hook for my return, then took a breath and forced myself through the doorway.

My heart thudded with each step, my senses alert as I became keenly aware of my surroundings. With sweating palms I grabbed hold of the railing in the servants' hall and jogged up the steps two at a time until I reached Box Five.

Once inside, a sense of relief washed over me and I perched on the very edge of my seat. To my surprise, on the empty chair beside me was a program with a note card on top with my name handwritten in large, fancy lettering.

 _The first of many performances_ , it said.

Madeline's note made me grin in the darkness of the box. I parted the curtain with great care, afraid one of the maids dusting the chairs one last time would notice a rustle of fabric. The orchestra pit had started to fill with musicians who stood around chatting and warming up. Behind them, the red velvet curtain with gold trim was still closed, but a man walked the length of the stage and made certain the stage was properly lit.

"Buquet!" I heard a man shout.

"Aye!"

The drunken louse's voice came from the box beside mine. At once I rose to my feet, fully prepared to dart out of the theater and sprint back to the cellar.

"What are you doing up there?"

A woman giggled and Buquet told her to hush.

"On my way to the catwalk," he answered.

"Damn you, get down here at once!" the man ordered. "I've spent twenty minutes looking for you."

Buquet cursed under his breath, which was followed by the clatter of glass, which I assumed was bottles of wine.

"Yes, Monsieur, right away."

"I'll wait for you," the woman whispered.

"No," Buquet said sharply. "There's a ghost haunting these boxes, my dear. Go to the dressing room and I will find you once I see what the stage manager wants with me."

"Make haste," the woman replied.

At last I heard their footfalls on the carpeting outside of the boxes and the creak of their steps as they both ran down the stairway. Several moments later, a visibly frustrated Buquet appeared on the stage before a short, gray-haired man with his hands on his hips. They argued a moment, their voices hushed but still audible thanks to the acoustics in the theater.

The theater manager threatened to fire Buquet if he made one more asinine mistake, although his words clearly had no effect on the stagehand. They stormed off in opposite directions as the orchestra began tuning their instruments and several ballet dancers sat cross-legged on the stage giggling.

They were younger than Madeline, all of them dressed in a light shade of green. One of the men in the orchestra pit stood on a chair and made a noise to frighten them, and after they collectively shrieked, the gaggle of young dancers laughed, which drew the attention of a more experienced dancer.

Hands on hips, she walked onto the stage and paused, shaking her head in dismay. "Behind the curtain, all of you. Jean Louis, you will be the death of these girls."

I did not need to see her face to recognize Madeline's stern voice and matching demeanor. She pointed off stage and the younger ballet girls hung their heads as they walked single file out of view.

"Yes, Mother," the girls said in unison, their collective, condescending tone gone unchecked by their self-appointed caretaker.

Madeline turned and briefly glanced up to the box where I sat. She nodded once and I did the same, although I was certain she could not see me in the shadows. Our secret acknowledgment of one another made me smile.

While I browsed through the program for the performance, the orchestra pit filled with musicians, various stage hands and other people presumably employed by the Opera House flitted on and off the stage, and the audience slowly poured into their seats behind ushers.

The box became noticeably warmer with the theater filled and stage lit. I drew back the heavy curtain just enough to peer at the world before me and sat forward with my knees pressed against the balcony wall. With the stagnant, hot air settling in around me, I used my program as a fan and considered removing my cravat and overcoat.

Once the seats were filled, I scanned the crowd below and wondered if my cousin was amongst the people patiently awaiting the performance. Part of me wondered if I would recognize my own family. In truth I looked for my uncle's face and gaunt frame, and after several fruitless moments of searching, I gave up and and turned my attention back to the orchestra pit.

The same man I had seen arguing with Buquet walked out onto the stage and made a few unnecessary remarks. He took a full three minutes to thank the patrons and remind the crowd of an upcoming gala. At last he walked off stage, the first overture started, and the curtain parted at last, revealing the set design.

My every sense seemed more alive as I took in the illuminated stage and of course the music. The audience erupted in applause as The Incomparable Catherda portrayed Leonore, the heroine of the story.

I could not recall bearing witness to anything more spectacular in my life, and as each line was sung and act one came to an end, I wanted the night to stand still for a moment so I could savor each detail.

During intermission I wondered what changes Beethoven had made to his only opera from its first performance to what appeared on the stage this night. There had been brief mention in the program of how the opera had been revised and revised again. True genius was never satisfied, and when I began composing my own music, I felt certain I would be like Beethoven, arranging and rearranging music in search of the perfect melody.

I found kinship in the story of the imprisoned Florestan, a man who languished in chains, forgotten by society. Instead of a faithful wife, however, I had been freed by my uncle. I imagined what he would have thought of box seats and the crowded theater with wealthy patrons seated in the first five rows. In the box below me, a theater critic loudly explained to his counterparts how Beethoven was in over his head with an opera and should have stayed with symphonies and sonatas.

The lights dimmed, and the theater critic fell silent at last as the remainder of the show unfolded on stage. Despite his scathing remarks, the opera was well received by the audience. Applause filled the theater and roses for the star of the show flooded the stage.

I stood on my feet at curtain call and watched for a fleeting moment before I took my leave and sprinted down the stairs. Against my better judgment I paused at the entrance leading to the stage and peered through the cracked door for one last look at the performers taking a bow. I pressed my fingers to the double-jointed door and pushed it open for a better look just as Cathedra di Carlo turned to walk off toward the wings with dozens of red rose bouquets in her arms.

She glowed without the assistance of the spotlights, beamed like a woman who not only belonged on the stage, but who clearly enjoyed every moment she stood before the adoring crowd.

Instead of scurrying into the shadows, I lingered still, my heart racing and head swimming with elation I had rarely experienced. This moment of joy outweighed the fear of being discovered. Foolishly I waited to see her up close, to take in her bright eyes and wide smile. Our eyes met for half a second and the soprano came to a sudden halt. I offered a nervous grin and she returned a closed-lipped smile. Shifting the flowers in her grasp, she curtised and I knew I had to leave at once.

Now that she had seen me, I fled, my heart racing as I reached the long hall leading to the cellars and whipped around the corner where I nearly lost my footing. Voices seemed to trail behind me, each one filled with excitement.

"Where did he go?" a woman shouted.

Once I reached the first cellar I grabbed a lantern from the wall, slipped through the doorway, and stopped to catch my breath.

The woman with the more extraordinary voice I had ever heard had not only seen me, but she had smiled. I should have been more concerned about being noticed, but my emotions were running high and I was still drunk on music. While men who overindulged on their whiskey stumbled and slurred their words, music allowed me a sense of elation I had never experienced. Every man, woman, and child should have experienced such exhilarating pleasure at least once in their lifetime. I could not think of anything more pleasurable than a night at the opera.

I took the stairs two at a time, my steps light and heart still racing as I attempted to remember each detail of the night. Once I reached the fifth cellar, I lit a dozen candles, pulled up a chair at the table, and removed my mask. With trembling hands I began scribbling notes and sketches to match the description of how the opera made me feel. My stomach rumbled, my mouth dry, yet I ignored physical discomfort and continued with my notes until I had a sizeable stack of paper before me.

Once the ink dried, I thumbed through the documents and frowned. The initial excitement had faded, and although I could recall the smallest detail, reading through my notes left me dissatisfied at best. Writing about the opera I had seen did little to convey how seeing the performance made me feel.

"Erik?"

Madeline knocked on the door, which startled me from my concentration.

"Come in," I said, though I did not look up from the leafs of paper scattered across the table.

"You are still dressed from last night?" she questioned.

"I have not yet had the opportunity to change," I muttered.

"Pardon me?"

At last I looked up and found Madeline in a long, blue skirt with her hair in a braid. "What time is it?" I asked as I fumbled for my watch. "Eleven," I said, answering my own question.

"Eleven in the morning," she clarified. "Have you been awake all night? You look exhausted."

I wanted to lie to her as she seemed quite concerned, but I merely shrugged.

"What have you been doing?"

Words failed to express my endeavor. My feverish scribbles, the way I listened to each melody over and over again in my head until the songs practically overlapped, could not be properly described.

"Thinking," I said at last.

Madeline eyed the papers strewn out before me and plucked a sheet from the table, which she examined. She looked it over for a long time, which made me increasingly uncomfortable as the silence drew out from seconds to a full minute.

"You spent the whole night writing this?" she asked as she turned the paper over.

I nodded and avoided her gaze. She clearly thought my actions were peculiar, perhaps fueled by madness.

Madeline gathered several more sheets of paper before I could protest and furrowed her brow. She absently took a seat beside me, and after reading through each page, she looked up at me.

"You wrote this all from memory?"

Again I nodded, and to my surprise Madeline offered a wide smile. "After weeks of rehearsal, I could not put each scene into pictures or words as you have done. Your mind is truly remarkable."

Her words were the opposite of what I expected to hear. For the better part of a year I had been labeled an oddity, a creature sired by evil. People looked upon me as though I were a brainless animal, and after endless nights of taunting and degradation their words became my truth. Madeline's kind words caught me off guard and I looked away, overwhelmed by the praise I did not deserve.

"I would ask how you enjoyed the opera, but I think your bloodshot eyes and all of your sketches and notes are proof enough of your enjoyment."

As I expected, she admonished me in her motherly tone for staying up all night but clearly she remained more impressed than upset.

"If I died this instant, I would die satisfied that I had witnessed the most amazing musical performance ever," I said.

Madeline laughed. "You sound like me."

"I would like to see another performance."

"It would be best if you waited a week or two," she suggested. Her words were followed by a long pause, and I followed her gaze to the mask I had left on the table. "The white face of a ghost," she commented as she tapped the leather covering with her index finger.

Our eyes met briefly. Breath held, I felt my body stiffen.

"You were spotted," she said, though her tone was impossible to gage, which made it difficult for me to decide whether or not I should apologize.

"Cathedra," I said under my breath, my gaze trained on the mask.

"Yes,she told everyone after the performance that she saw a figure watching from the shadow, however, I saw you as well."

Eyes wide, I looked across the table and saw Madeline return a half-hearted smile.

"And apparently so did half a dozen other performers as well as the stage manager," she told me. "The whole theater was in an uproar after the performance."

"I do not know why I stopped," I said at last. Despite feeling as though my actions were in no way malicious or done with defiant intent, I had made a grave mistake and hung my head in shame.

"You stopped because the door was open and you wanted one last look," Madeline replied. "I would have done the same thing."

"For you it is permissible," I mumbled.

No one would have given Madeline a second look if she had been in my place. There would have been nothing out of the ordinary if she had walked past the side of the stage and peered through the doorway. Even in the mask-or perhaps because of it-I was a spectacle to be seen.

Before I was fully engulfed in self loathing and despair, Madeline sat forward and tilted her head to the side. "Cathedra thinks she saw a spirit bearing good fortune. She was quite pleased to have seen a ghost following the performance."

An unexpected smile played at the corners of my mouth. I wished I had shouted out a word of praise, but in the moment I had been too shocked to have met her eye for one fleeting moment.

"You jest."

Madeline shook her head. "The theater managers wanted to call a priest, but Cathedra threatened to walk out if any harm came to her spirit."

My heart thudded. I very much wanted to be in her favor, despite realizing I would forever remain a ghost to her.

"She was not afraid?" I questioned.

"On the contrary." Madeline reached into a bag I had not seen her carry inside and pushed a plate of sausage toward me. "She told Enoch, our stage manager, she was not feeling well before the performance when a cool breeze grazed along her shoulders. She has credited her swift healing to the opera ghost."

The story was absurd, but I grunted nonetheless.

"She has even offered payment to keep the spirit within the Opera House."

"Payment?" my eyes narrowed.

"Ten thousand francs," Madeline said casually.

My lips parted. "This cannot be true."

"Unfortunately Buquet will pocket it once he discovers where Senora di Carlo leaves the offering."

I sat upright, my back rigid at the sound of his name. How I loathed that drunken, ignorant fool. Everything about him reminded me of my father and Garouche.

"No," I said firmly.

Madeline looked surprised.

"He will not take a single coin from her," I said between my teeth.

"You will take it then?" she asked incredulously.

"To keep Buquet from profiting? Yes."

Madeline made a face. "I do not think it is wise."

Neither did I, but I despised the thought of Buquet squandering funds from the Incomparable Cathedra.

"When does she intend to leave such a gift to the spirit?"

Madeline shrugged and shot me a warning look. "She has not yet told anyone as far as I know. Perhaps it is a secret between the soprano and her ghost."

"Then I will ask her myself."

Madeline issued a sideways glance as her lips formed a tight, thin line. "I beg your pardon?"

"The ghost will ask her," I replied as I cut off a piece of sausage with my fork and took a bite. I felt quite proud of my answer and self-assured.

"You would put yourself at risk."

I shrugged off her words. "Making certain Buquet does not benefit from Senora di Carlo's kindness would be worth it."

"What precisely would you do with ten thousand francs?" she asked.

"I do not care about the sum of money."

"Why not?"

"Why would I?" I looked around the cavern and shrugged.

Madeline stuck out her lower lip and thought a moment. "If I had that amount of money, I would have a cottage by the ocean with nothing around as far as I could see. Or a flat all to myself in the heart of London and the city at my feet."

Her words struck me as odd. "You still wish for solitude?"

"Some days."

"Then I would give the funds to you so that you would be able to do as you wish."

Her expression immediately sobered. "I would never ask you for such a thing."

"I would offer it to you freely."

"There is no need."

For a long moment we sat in silence as I contemplated what I would truly do with such a hefty sum of money. I thought of the jewelry I had stolen back for the Batiste family and how it had never crossed my mind to keep a single piece as payment for myself.

"You must understand I have no family that would claim me, no friends other than you." I stared at the mask on the table and suppressed a shiver. My feelings of loneliness went through cycles of acceptance and bitterness at my place in the world. With Madeline it was easy to forget I was different, however, reminders were never far. Each moment of bliss was always closely followed by an abyss of sadness. There was no escape from my emotions; only a valiant attempt to hold on and survive the turmoil.

"Do not say such things," Madeline admonished.

"If nothing else I am realistic, Madeline. I will have no wife and no children as heirs. You may very well be the only person I ever speak to for the rest of my life. I would consider it a modest payment for your kindness."

Madeline quickly shook her head at my words, her face drawn and pale as she considered what I had said. "I would not accept. Kindness should not be done with the intention of seeking reward."

"A gift then? To the only person I know."

"You are far too pessimistic for your age. I will hear no more of it."

"Look at me," I whispered, barely able to speak past the lump in my throat. "I am an oddity."

Madeline quickly shook her head. "Not to me."

"To the rest of the world, then, from my parents and to nearly every single person I have ever encountered."

The sadness in her eyes was more than I could bear. Her heartbreak echoed the throbbing, undeniable pain I had always felt inside. Even in the midst of the opera when I could not have felt more alive, it weighed upon me.

"You know what I say is true. I have your friendship and music. I value both greatly."

She sighed heavily and wiped her eyes. "I do not know what to say."

"Say you would accept my gift."

Her gaze remained trained on the table and she offered no answer to my question. "Where did the mask come from?" she asked, effectively changing the subject.

"One of the boxes," I replied.

"It suits you well," she said at last. "My words were not intended as an insult."

"I did not think so."

Madeline met my eye. "There is more to you than what is behind the mask," she said. "I mean that sincerely."

No matter her sincerity, deep inside I found it impossible to believe her words. I did not need to see my reflection to know the limit of my worth. For my entire life, not a single day went by that there was not a harsh word or an act of violence made against me, at least not until I was under my uncle's protection briefly and now hidden away beneath the Opera House.

"What do you see?" I asked. I lowered my gaze, fearful of her reply and yet yearning for acceptance. One kind word was all I desired, and for so long I had been denied what others considered trivial.

"A genius," Madeline said without a second thought. I looked up and saw her smile warmly at me as she slid her hand over mine. "An incredible genius."


	18. The Desire to be Real

Chapter 18

Madeline was indeed correct in saying I could not approach the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo face-to-face as the risk was far too great. As much as I desired to speak with the soprano, it was unfortunately not feasible.

I could, however, contact her indirectly with the help of a note. The biggest obstacle was finding a way to deliver it to her.

The actors were two weeks into _Fidelio_ and Madeline assured me the Opera House was still abuzz with news of the ghost, which of course I was aware of as I swam across the lake nearly every night to listen to the performance well beneath the stage.

From the youngest dancer to the oldest stagehand, there was much speculation as to where the ghost had come from and what he truly intended for the cast and in particular Cathedra di Carlo.

In my nightly eavesdropping I learned Cathedra spent her time before the performance in the chapel where she prayed for the voice of an angel and sat with a cloth over her head and a bowl of steaming water under her nose. After she sufficiently prayed, and steamed her vocal chords, she donned her makeup, costume, and a wig and took to the stage to entertain the masses.

By listening in on their conversations I had a general idea of where the dressing rooms and chapel were in relation to the stage, and one afternoon before anyone arrived in the theater, I made my way across the lake with several tools to pick the lock and discovered the padlock was merely dangling

The very act of clearing the doorway was somewhat cathartic, and as I unwrapped the iron chains from the bars and tossed them aside, I considered myself freed from my past. The theater lay before me and with it possibilities I had not ever considered.

The first time I stepped foot past the chained doorway, I found myself taken aback by the location. There was a trap door over my head and cogs the size of wagon wheels which turned parts of the theater floor. Further back was a ladder where actors who had disappeared on the stage could climb back up and behind the scenes. Nothing in the theater was quite as it seemed, and the magic of it all made my heart race.

Beneath the theater was a dark and mysterious world, a sort of playground I had exclusive access to whenever I pleased. Having seen the performance I knew the trap door was not used during _Fidelio_ , which meant I was safe to wander about while the actors and dancers put on a show above me.

What fascinated me was how quiet the theater was before performances, so silent I could hear my joints crack and the beat of my own heart when I stood approximately under the chapel. To my delight I discovered the endless maze of servants' passages overlapped with the stagehand halls and tunnels beneath the stage. It took me little time at all to find the chapel and Senora di Carlo.

She prayed in Italian, her voice musical even when she spoke. I stood outside the chapel door in the servants' hall and closed my eyes as I listened to her ask for good health, the voice of an angel, and a place in heaven beside her sister and mother.

"Every day is a gift," she said. "Please protect me a while longer. I am not yet prepared to leave this body."

I furrowed my brow at her parting words, wondering how she was endangered. Once I heard the chapel doorway quietly open and close, I pushed open the servants' door and looked around the small room with its stained glass window and an alter filled with candles, dried flowers, and tokens to loved ones. The air was faintly scented with peppermint, and the pungent scent made me wrinkle my nose.

There were two new candles freshly lit behind a pencil drawing of a woman with a round, stern face. I assumed it was a drawing of Cathedra's mother. A draft seeped through the window and the candles flickered as I examined the paintings on the wall and a cushioned bench near the window.

Days earlier I had written a brief note to Cathedra praising her talent and assuring her no monetary gift was necessary. I pulled it from my coat pocket and tucked it beneath the drawing of the round-faced woman before I exited down the hallway and returned beneath the stage with nervous excitement buzzing through me.

The following day Madeline paid a visit and entered my apartments with her hands on her hips and a heavy sigh that signaled her entrance in quite dramatic fashion.

"You left her a note," Madeline stated.

I should have known Madeline would be fully aware of my actions, but I still found myself somewhat surprised. Reluctantly I nodded. Given that she offered no greeting, I suspected she was not pleased with me. Yet, still I attempted to make pleasantries.

"Good morning," I said, making every attempt to sound jovial.

She ignored my words and stormed toward me.

"You should know Cathedra fainted," Madeline said. "Her husband found her sprawled out on the chapel floor. They had to call a physician as it was unclear whether or not she would be able to perform."

Immediately I sobered. In my mind I imagined The Incomparable Cathedra plucking the note from beneath the drawing of her mother and unfolding the paper to read a message signed by the opera ghost. I turned away from Madeline, ashamed of causing the poor woman undue stress and bodily harm.

"Is she badly injured?" I asked with my back to Madeline.

"Thankfully no more than a bump to the head and candle wax in her hair," Madeline answered. "She swears the opera ghost broke her fall."

I turned on my heel and faced Madeline once more. "I was not present, this I swear to you. I left the note once she exited the chapel and did not linger."

Part of me wished I had been there as I would not have allowed her to fall and hit her head. Remorse knifed through me, although I felt a sense of relief that she had not been injured worse.

"You found her in the chapel?"

"I stayed in the servants' hall while she prayed."

Her eyes narrowed. "How did you find your way there?"

"The door is marked," I answered vaguely. My words felt like the start of a tremendous lie, but at the same time I feared telling her the truth and how I waded into the water and across the underground lake.

Madeline dismissed my words with a flick of her wrist. "You should not contact her further." _You have done irreversible damage, you insolent child._

We stood in silence for a long moment as I waited for Madeline to berate my foolish actions. I knew she would not physically strike me, and so I waited for her tongue lashing. Punishment had always followed wrong doings and without a harsh word-strange as it seemed-I felt as though I were left dangling.

"I have frightened her," I said under my breath. Even without her seeing my wretched face, I had terrified Cathedra and there was no way for me to make amends or offer an apology. "Does she wish to call a priest now?"

Madeline was slow to answer. She rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek and crossed her arms over her chest. "Remarkably she does not."

My eyes widened. "What does she wish to do then?" I asked.

"I have no idea," Madeline answered tightly.

The way she stood rigid with her eyes refusing to meet mine left me wondering what had transpired. Undoubtedly there was more than what Madeline had divulged.

"Was her husband upset?"

"Of course," Madeline said. "He made it quite clear he would strangle the ghost with his bare hands if the spirit were flesh and blood."

The threat did not bother me, which seemed to annoy Madeline as she shifted her weight and rolled her eyes.

"He is a very large man," she added as though this would somehow make me less inclined to contact Cathedra. "If he discovered there was no ghost he would see you tortured and hanged, I have no doubt."

"Will she sing tonight?"

"I suppose we shall find out."

"What will happen if she does not take the stage?"

Madeline shrugged. "I do not know."

"Is there an understudy?"

She replied with a humorless laugh. "For Cathedra?"

Her curt answers bewildered me. Despite the dozens of questions flooding my thoughts, I held my tongue.

"I did not intend to cause trouble," I said at last, feeling like a scalded dog bellying up to its master in search of forgiveness.

"And yet it has been caused."

Madeline' words cut deeper than any insult I had received in my lifetime, and the sensation was amplified when she turned her back on me and started toward the door.

"Tell me what I must do to make amends," I blurted out.

"I wish I knew," she said over her shoulder.

Following our exchange, I was certain I had never experienced true agony until that moment when the door closed and Madeline left. I had difficulty understanding the depths of her anger as she seemed somewhat indifferent toward me. Not knowing what to do or say ate away at my nerves and twisted my stomach in knots.

For hours I sat listless in my armchair and stared at the empty place where Madeline usually sat. Her time had been cut short lately due to the performances, and for the most part I didn't mind because I could stand beneath the stage at night and listen to the opera.

 _And yet it has been caused._

Six simple words spoken flatly felt like a splinter embedded in my heart. I did not know what to say or do to make amends with Madeline. Moreover, I was not certain when she would return, which fueled my already raging anxiety.

My father as well as Garouche, and his oldest sons had shown me pure rage and violence when they were angry. There was an unspoken understanding that if my father was kicked out of the tavern, he would return home and unleash his frustrations on me. With Garouche I was well aware if anything was missing-be it bread or funds from ticket sales, his sons would point their dirty, fat fingers at me. It did not matter if they ransacked my few belongings and found nothing of interest. Guilt had nothing to do with the punishment.

I was all too familiar with rage, however, Madeline's reaction reminded me more of my uncle and less of my father. No matter how much I frustrated him, my uncle had never struck or humiliated me, not even when I deserved punishment.

Repeatedly I had disappointed him, repaid his kindness with acts of utter stupidity and arrogance. Yet for every foolish misstep, my uncle forgave me, often times before I would forgive myself for being an insolent boy. With my thoughts consumed by self-destruction, I wondered if my uncle would have still been alive if he would have eventually abandoned me somewhere and returned home.

The notion made me shudder. I would not have thought less of him if he had pushed me away or quietly slipped into the night while I slept. He had freed me from my father's underground hell and owed me nothing.

Likewise I would not have blamed Madeline if she asked me to leave the Opera House after the unexpected disturbance I had caused. The gypsies were no longer in Paris and I doubted the search for me continued.

 _And yet it has been caused_.

My body went numb as I thought of Cathedra being injured and Madeline caught aiding me in my escape. Senora di Carlo would have been unscathed and perhaps Madeline would have stayed longer in England with her family if not for me.

Lips pressed tightly together, I held back a sob and closed my eyes. There was not a single corner of the entire world where I would ever find acceptance, and yet I craved it all the same. No matter how well I learned to play the violin, despite the melodies in my head begging to be committed to paper, I would be nothing.

A genius, Madeline had said to me, however, I was well aware it did not matter what she saw in me; the rest of the world had made certain I knew my fate. Instead of applause, I would forever hear the shrieks of women and children. Rather than remembered for my symphonies and operas, I would only be known as a monster-if I were remembered at all.

The cellar door creaked open and I sprang out of my chair, startled by the sound and half-expecting Cathedra's husband had come to strangle me.

Instead I found Madeline in her ballet costume, her face still painted brightly from the performance. I had no idea what time it was, but I realized I had been sitting in the same spot for hours on end.

I held my arms still at my side and averted my gaze, terrified to confront her. I inhaled sharply and watched from the corner of my eye as she stepped closer.

"You are upset?" Madeline questioned. She did not wait for me to respond. "From last night, I suppose."

My eyes met hers. "Last night?" I questioned.

Madeline's lips parted. "My God, you have not slept, have you?" She stepped closer and looked me over. "Your eyes are bloodshot. It is not healthy for you to stay awake for days on end like this."

I offered no reply as I did not much care about the detrimental effects on my health.

"Erik," Madeline said under her breath. "Please, I am concerned about you."

"Is Senora di Carlo unwell?" I asked, ignoring her words.

Madeline furrowed her brow. "She has made a full recovery and has been permitted to perform this evening," she answered.

"Good." I gave a single nod and turned away from Madeline.

Long moments passed, but I could not bring myself to face my only friend. Heaviness weighed upon me, and my chest ached as though an invisible hand gripped tight around my heart.

"You do not wish to see me?" Madeline asked at last.

I shivered at her sullen words. "Quite the opposite, Mademoiselle."

"I do not understand why you will not speak to me."

 _Because I do not deserve a single second of your company_ , I wanted to tell her. Because I was accustomed to being treated and viewed as a beast and her kindness was foreign. Because I wanted desperately to be someone else and I knew my fate had been sealed at birth. Because she was truly an angel and I was the devil's son and her kindness would never change my place in life.

"Because you should not spend so much time down here," I said at last. As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted speaking them and yet I made no effort to retract my statement.

"Why not?" Madeline persisted. "And when you answer, have the gall to look me in the eye," she said through her teeth.

I turned on my heel and faced her at last, my hands balled into fists and body rigid, prepared for an exchange of harsh words. I expected pure anger, but instead found tear-filled eyes meeting mine. Her expression caught me off-guard, and I stood several feet away with my lips parted and tongue unable to form words.

I had not expected nor intended to hurt her, and yet pain had been caused. The monster within me stirred, a beast created from years of harsh treatment and no escape. My chest tightened and I felt as though I would suffocate despite each breath coming hard and fast. Rage spread like fire, the hatred and confusion I felt inside smothering any rational thoughts.

"What do you have to say?" Madeline asked, her tone stern despite her melancholy expression.

"Nothing," I mumbled. Numbness slowly replaced the anger. I had no desire to confront her a moment longer as I feared the irreversible damage of my words.

"You have nothing to say to me?"

"No words I would dare speak would be the truth."

Madeline's lower lip quivered. "Why would you not tell me the truth?"

"I cannot bear it."

"I do not understand."

Confusion set in as the beast within my mind stalked back and forth restlessly. Every thought racing through my muddled head contradicted the previous one as I considered lashing out verbally, then falling to my knees as I begged for forgiveness, and finally I grappled with the idea of disappearing. No matter what I chose, I would not win. Frustration threatened to rip me apart.

I looked past her and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My shoulders were hunched, hands balled into tight fists and head tilted down in shame. I did not bother to look at my own face as there was no need. The beast was there; a terrible and disgusting animal mocking my turmoil.

Madeline, however, would not accept my silence. She followed my gaze, and I saw her staring back at me through the mirror. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away.

"You are not upset with me, are you?" she questioned.

Defeated by my own lack of worth, I pressed my eyes shut and shook my head. Once I gave my silent admission, lack of sleep and my growling stomach left me utterly exhausted and trembling. I took a deep breath, glad I had not spoken harshly to Madeline as I had done many times to my uncle, and trudged toward one of the armchairs.

My body felt heavy as lead, my mind still swimming-or rather drowning-with overwhelming hatred for myself. I barely registered Madeline's presence as she took her seat across from me and sat with her hands folded in her lap and lips pressed together. I should have acknowledged her, but my senses were dulled as though I had been issued a tremendous blow to the head.

"I suppose this is not perhaps the best time, but Senora di Carlo left a note for you in the chapel," Madeline said.

I blinked, my eyes dry and barely able to stay open. "What did it say?"

Madeline reached across the chairs and held out an off-white envelope. "I have not opened it."

I stared at the envelope pinched between her thumb and forefinger, unsure of whether I wished to read the contents. At last I accepted the note and briefly glanced at the perfectly scrawled lettering on the front:

 _My Dearest Opera Ghost_

The soprano's fond greeting intrigued me, and as I turned the envelope over in my grasp, I caught a whiff of strong, floral perfume.

"She likes to smell like a garden," Madeline remarked as I wrinkled my nose.

"You took this?" I questioned.

"Before anyone else saw."

"Why? Why would you bring this to me?"

Madeline sat back. "Let this be the end of it," she said. "Read what she has to say and know she is grateful."

I set the envelope aside. "I would rather burn it."

Madeline looked at me pointedly. "You are being quite infantile."

She was correct, and to accentuate her point, I slouched in the chair and crossed my arms over my chest. My protest, however, lasted only a moment as my gaze was drawn back to the envelope on the table between our chairs.

My curiosity had always been insatiable, even as a very small child kept in seclusion, when I managed to escape-either out of the house entirely or sneaking into the main level when my parents were away-I looked through books and letters and whatever else I assumed they would not notice had gone missing. With materials tucked beneath my arm, I scurried back into the darkness and hid my treasures beneath the bins of onions and potatoes. Remarkably, despite how often my father grabbed root vegetables from the wooden bins, he never once looked beneath the containers. I wondered if my collection was still there in the cellar, rotting away in my absence.

I glanced at the unopened envelope and rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek. Patience was not my strong suit, and judging by the way Madeline sat with her legs crossed at the ankles and eyes fixed on me, she knew I was unable to contain myself.

"Oh, for God's sake," I muttered as I grabbed the envelope and stood. For a half a moment I considered foolishly lighting it on fire, but the thought was fleeting. I wanted to know what Cathedra di Carlo had written to me, to her dearest and yet undeserving Opera Ghost.

Madeline stood as well, her frame rigid and lips parted. I turned from her, slid my finger beneath the wax seal, and tore open the envelope. My palms felt damp, my hands shaking as I pulled the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read the famous soprano's words.

"What did she say?" Madeline asked as I read it a second time.

"She said… she wishes I were real," I said under my breath. My heart ached as I scanned the letter again and again, hoping somehow the words would rearrange themselves and the message would change. How quickly my elation abandoned me.

Perhaps it was the initial excitement or the throbbing in my chest that felt as though my rib cage would crack open, but I felt light-headed and cold in my bones. I sat heavily in my chair and continued the torment by reading her words again.

 _If you were real, if you were a man of flesh and bone, I would very much like to embrace you in a show of gratitude for your guidance and love. You are the light in my heart, Dearest Phantom, the spirit guiding my voice. You have truly made me appreciate my gift, and I hope to share it with all of Paris a while longer._

At last I folded the note and placed it back inside the envelope, which I held for a long moment. In silence I questioned who I was; a young man, the Devil's Son, a Living Corpse, or a Phantom.


	19. Blue Gloves

Chapter 19

Cathedra di Carlo's words were not meant as an insult, at least that was what Madeline attempted to convince me. I recalled little of our conversation before she left for the remainder of the day, though I did remember her giving me a forlorn look at the door as she took my hand in hers. I pulled away, finding the contact uncomfortable given my melancholy mood.

"You do not need to visit me tomorrow," I said blankly. "I wish to be alone."

Once I shut the cellar door, I imagined disappearing forever, my body sinking into the crevices in the stone, seeping bonelessly into the earth. A creature made of nothing should have been able to vanish at will and yet I was, apparently, still real and made to suffer.

Every time I glanced at the note on the side table between the armchairs, I felt exceedingly worse about my fate. As much as I wanted to summon every ounce of rage I could muster, Cathedra di Carlo's words conjured sadness.

 _If you were real_.

My life did not exist. Four simple words in a brief note erased the notion that I was a human being. It was, of course, not the first time I had felt as though I was less than other men, though this time it was different. All of my life I was thought less of because of how I was seen and now...now I was insignificant because I could not be seen.

Frustrated, I stalked toward the small table, ripped the note from the envelope, and set it aflame with one of the candles until smoke filled my nostrils and the page turned black and disintegrated before my eyes. Ash fell to my feet, a Phoenix I hoped would never rise, and I held onto the very last corner until my fingertips hurt and I was forced to drop the last bit of paper, which burned at my feet.

Eventually I grew tired of my own miserable company and fell asleep on my bed staring at the ceiling. After days spent awake, I had every intention of sleeping like a bear in hibernation.

Madeline, however, had different designs for my day. Much to my utter annoyance, she did not listen to my words and arrived quite early in the morning.

She was silent as a cat, and I woke to her standing over me with her arms crossed. She was dressed in a simple pale yellow dress with white sleeves and trim, and before I fully woke, I swore a ghost stood watch over my sleeping form.

She frightened the holy hell out of me.

"What are you doing?" I blurted out in half-sleep as I wrestled with the bedsheets and nearly tumbled off the edge of the bed.

"I have been worried sick all night about you." She took a step back and shook her head as though somehow I were at fault. "Barely slept all night."

"Why?" I asked as I flopped onto my side and faced away from her. To accent my disgruntled mood, I pulled the coverlet over my head.

"You wish to have a conversation while you remain buried under your blankets?" she questioned.

 _Yes_ , I wanted to answer as I pressed my eyes shut and made every infantile effort to ignore her. If there was to be any conversation at all, let it be from beneath the comfort of my warm blankets. Once she began tapping her shoe against the natural stone flooring, I squirmed beneath the coverlet and let out a groan.

She was not about to leave any time soon, I realized.

"What hour is it?"

"When I left the dormitory it was five."

My eyes shot open and I pulled the blanket down. "In the morning?" I exclaimed.

Madeline raised a brow and nodded. "This was the earliest I could come."

Slowly the events from the previous night crept into my thoughts and I recalled how I had asked her not to visit me at all. Now that I had a moment to reflect, I felt quite foolish in my request.

"It is an unreasonable hour," I yawned.

"I seem to have misplaced my favorite gloves," Madeline stated, completely ignoring the fact that I remained in bed. "I thought I would look here first and see if I dropped them while checking on you at the same time."

"Did you find them?"

"I have not had a chance to search."

That seemed like a fabrication, but I sat up and rubbed my eyes. "Why would you need your gloves at five in the morning?"

Once I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, Madeline offered a devious smile. "I do not need them. As I first said, I was worried about you. The gloves are secondary."

My mood instantly darkened, a sort of aftershock of anger surfacing after a night of quaking in frustration and self-hatred. My limitations became more evident with each passing hour and no outlet for my emotions seemed suitable. Anything I broke I would be forced to clean up later. If I left the Opera House altogether I feared being locked out once more. I was in no mood for swimming, which meant my options were very limited. Burning the note had turned out less than satisfying.

I sat hunched over, arms crossed over my chest as I faced away from her. Stewing, my uncle called the behavior. I was quite accustomed to stirring my own anger, a whirlwind roaring in my mind.

"What color are your gloves?"

"Purple."

I will leave your purple gloves outside of the door if I find them," I said. "There is no need for you to stay."

Madeline remained undeterred by my childish words. "I have a surprise for you."

She knew precisely what to say to garner my attention and I had no choice but to look up and meet her eye. My belly rumbled, which made Madeline's smile widen.

"What sort of surprise?" I asked, although I still made every attempt to convince myself that my misery had no end and I was not truly interested in her surprise.

A warm smile graced her lips. "A private performance tonight."

My heart stuttered. "In the theater?" I asked obtusely.

"For our fifty greatest patrons."

I bowed my head. "But the box-"

"The de Chagnys have not yet returned from holiday," Madeline assured me. "You may sit in Box Five undisturbed for a special performance." She shrugged and picked at her nails. "Unless of course you prefer staying here."

She was treating me as I deserved, like an insolent child pouting.

As to not give her the satisfaction, I nodded slowly and pretended to weigh my options in silence when really there was no decision to be made. I discovered I had grown quite fond of the seats the de Chagny fortune inadvertently allowed me as well as their long absence. With any luck, perhaps they would never return and the box seats would forever be mine.

"Is it the entire opera?" I asked.

Madeline shook her head as she stepped away from me and walked clear around the table in search of her gloves. Her moves seemed somewhat theatrical, which made me wonder if her gloves were misplaced at all.

"Special selections from Monsieur Reyer," she answered over her shoulder while skimming over a stack of music. "He is the director."

I nodded even though she did not face me.

"And there is something more." She eyed me briefly, her voice filled with excitement. "No ballet tonight."

"You can watch the performance." I suspected it was a rarity for Madeline and the rest of the ballet dancers to be part of the audience. My attempts at appearing casual were foiled by my own smile.

Madeline rolled onto the balls of her feet. "From any seat I choose." She grunted. "Well, aside from the patron seats, although some of the men would prefer a woman seated on their laps." She rolled her eyes in disgust.

My mirth faltered. I pictured myself alone in the opera box while Madeline sat with the other dancers in the orchestra section. From afar I would watch as they giggled and whispered amongst themselves until the ballet mistress silenced them as the lights dimmed and the curtain parted.

"Have you decided where you will sit this evening?" I asked as I stared at my bare feet. Misery most certainly preferred my company, I thought to myself.

Madeline abandoned her search for her gloves and walked toward me. From the corner of my eye I saw her approach with her hands on her hips, each step executed with grace and determination. She extended her hand and nudged me in the shoulder.

"You know precisely where I will be." Her eyes met mine and she shook her head. "Enough sulking, Erik. I do not want to see you like this for a moment longer."

I started to protest, but she would not hear it and at last I stood and stretched.

"Help me look for my gloves and then we shall have breakfast."

I yawned again. "Remind me, what color are your gloves?"

"Blue," she answered. She caught herself all too late and started to correct herself but merely offered a sheepish grin.

"Blue indeed," I said under my breath, glad for her fabrication.

Breakfast and coffee, which I still did not much care for, turned my sullen mood tolerable. Since there was no regular performance for the evening thanks to the special event, Madeline had the majority of the day to herself.

"There is a festival today, which means in a few hours most of the performers will be out for the day," she said.

"You are not going with them?" I asked.

"The festival takes place over three days. I can go tomorrow if I choose, though honestly I do not wish to spend a single franc after my visit to London."

She explained briefly that part of her funds for the month of June went to her parents in order to pay for her brother's funeral expenses. Her father had been out of work recently due to declining health and Madeline passed a considerable amount of her funds to her mother in secret.

"That was very kind of you," I commented. Deep inside, however, I could not help but feel a sense of concern for Madeline and her family. I worried about her being unable to feed herself or-worse yet-leaving the Opera House if she was unable to pay for her room and board. I was not certain if I could remain within the Opera House if she returned to London permanently. Perhaps selfishly on my part I worried how her life wout impact mine.

"I do not have the means to pay for my breakfast," I said as I looked from my nearly empty plate to her face. The fact that my food came from her hard-earned wages had not crossed my mind.

"Believe me, no one notices a bit of food missing from the kitchen," she said. I couldn't tell if she was being truthful.

"But if you are sending money to your parents, you will not have enough to feed yourself. You should not go hungry."

"I should not have said a word. Trust me, I am in no danger of starving." Madeline shrugged.

"But… I do not mind going hungry," I blurted out. "I am accustomed to smaller meals."

Truthfully I was accustomed to rarely eating at all. Days would pass without so much as a chicken bone or apple core tossed my way. The emptiness was familiar, I wanted to tell her, but feared she would be upset by my words.

Madeline turned her head to the side and frowned. "They do not keep track of every item we put on our plates. The only time I spend money outside of the theater is when I want to eat at a cafe, which isn't often, believe me. Besides, my parents have sent me money and gifts every few months for years. It is the least I could do in return." She took a gulp of her coffee and sat back. "Eat, Erik. I will not see you starved."

With her eyes narrowed, she gave me a stern nod and made sure I continued to eat. Inwardly I smiled, appreciating her concern for me. I enjoyed the way she looked after me.

"And just because I do not buy anything at the festival doesn't mean I will not enjoy it. The best view of all the vendors and the performances is from the rooftop."

With a bite of breakfast sausage hanging out of my mouth I froze, startled by her words. Realizing how ridiculous I must have appeared, I hastily chewed and swallowed my food before blinking at her.

"The rooftop?" I echoed.

"Fresh air would be nice, wouldn't it?"

I nodded readily. Out of all the details I missed while staying underground in the caverns, I longed for the smell of fresh cut grass and the air before a storm. I wondered how often I had taken those scents for granted.

"I have a few small errands to run, but I figured I would come down here at noon."

"I will meet you at the top of the stairs," I offered.

My eagerness seemed to please Madeline, who nodded at my offer. "Lunch on the rooftop and then the performance begins at eight sharp."

That was practically a full day spent out of the cellar. I looked at my pocket watch and saw it was not even six in the morning.

"You could sleep a while longer," Madeline suggested, apparently sensing my dismay.

More than likely the anticipation would slowly kill me. I shrugged and continued eating in silence.

"Oh," Madeline said as she bent and reached under the table. "I almost forgot I have sugar for your coffee. I noticed you do not seem to like it black."

She produced a small porcelain bowl wrapped in a cloth bag with a drawstring to keep the lid from falling off.

"Thank you," I said as I dumped the entire contents into my cup of coffee.

Madeline inhaled sharply and I froze, overturned sugar bowl still in hand. I had no idea what I had done to earn such a response.

"One cube at a time," she said. "That is why there is a little spoon attached to the handle.

I hadn't noticed the matching spoon until she mentioned it. Sheepishly I handed her the empty bowl and stirred my coffee. One I took a careful sip while Madeline looked on, I nodded at the sweetened taste.

"Much improved."

Her eyes widened. "You may as well have drank pure sugar." She took another sip of her coffee. "I prefer mine black."

Involuntarily I wrinkled my nose. The only reason I even drank coffee was to not hurt her feelings. Without an entire container of sugar dumped into the cup I found the taste far too bitter.

Madeline returned the bowl and empty plates into her basket and stood. "We will have a beautiful picnic with Apollo," she stated. "The best rooftop view in all of Paris."

My dismal mood from the previous evening had all but vanished at the promise of fresh air and sunlight. Each time I thought of the warmth of the sun, my uncle was in the forefront of my memory. The ache in my chest became more noticeable, almost shoved to the forefront of my thoughts.

"What day is it?" I asked.

"Day of the week?"

"Day of what month."

She gave me a peculiar look. "The twenty-third of September."

The anniversary of my uncle's death drew near, I knew, but I was not entirely certain of the date. Early November, I thought, but I was not one to keep track of the passing days. For the most part one day blended into the other and nothing stood out as particularly significant. I did not know the day-much less the month-of my own birth. The headstone in the back garden of my parents' home merely stated _Infant Son_ and the year of my birth, 1850. My given name was blocked out by weeds and moss, such was its worth.

"It is already September?"

"It's almost October," Madeline said with a chuckle.

As far as I could recall, the traveling fair made its way into Paris sometime in June, which meant I had been at the Opera House three months now. That did not seem possible as I still felt as though I had been in hiding for mere weeks.

"What month did you think it was?" she asked over her shoulder as she arranged my stack of books in a manner she apparently found more appealing.

"I had no idea," I answered.

Once she finished straightening a pile of sketches, she looked at me. "When is your birthday?"

Ashamed, I looked away from her and shrugged. Perhaps a birth date was etched beneath moss and tall weeds on my headstone, but I did not recall ever seeing a date. The horror I had felt once I discovered the empty grave haunted me for quite some time as I realized my father made frequent attempts to place me beneath the ground.

Without missing a beat, Madeline clasped her hands. "June," she said. "The very best people are born in June."

I had a feeling I knew her answer, but I asked all the same. "When is your birthday?"

She giggled. "June."

I appreciated her willingness to share her birth month with me and nodded. It seemed appropriate to claim June as my birth month when that is when I arrived in Paris and stumbled into my rebirth.

"I will see you at noon at the top of the stairs," Madeline confirmed as she made her way to the door.

"Did you find your gloves?" I asked.

Madeline paused at the door, her lips parted as she considered my inquiry. Knowing I had caught her in a white lie, she did nothing to contain her smile. "I do believe I left them in the dormitory after all."


	20. The Other Side of the Lake

I appreciate you still reading. Please let me know what you think

Chapter 20

I was not certain if it was the coffee, the substantial amount of sugar, or the prospect of a day spent outside of the cellar, but my nerves felt as though static coursed through my body.

Restlessness threatened to drive me mad as I checked my pocket watch every few minutes until an hour passed. With a little under four hours before I would join Madeline for a rooftop meal, I crossed the lake once more-this time with a spare towel and a few various tools, which I intended to leave on the other side for future expeditions.

Although I was fairly certain there was no treasure chest awaiting on the choppy, dark shores of the underground lake, my need for mental stimulation was insatiable.

Had I been born with a whole face instead of the visage of nightmares, I would have taken great pleasure in exploring the most mysterious corners of the world. Sometimes, while I helped the Gypsies as tent poles were driven into the earth and secured with iron nails the length of my arm, I allowed my mind to wander and thought of myself on a mighty quest in the great Pharaoh tombs of Egypt or ancient South American civilizations deep within the jungle.

In my daydreams, the tents were meant to shade the dig sites as I lead a team to unearth the tombs of forgotten royalty. Mundane tasks turned into adventure, and beneath the sweltering midday heat I passed the time in silence. Garouche was kinder on the days I proved useful, and I looked forward to new towns where I could stretch my arms and legs for a bit before returning to my usual place far from the others. I was aware that my actions benefited them more than it did me, but I didn't care.

As I patted myself dry and dressed on the opposite bank of the lake, I imagined myself in the unexplored depths of some abandoned underground city. Perhaps a sea serpent the length of a mighty ship lurked within the untold depths of water I had crossed. I glanced back at the ripples in the lake, and despite the most reasonable explanation being a fish skimming the surface, I entertained the more fantastical thought of the serpent guarding the underground passageway.

"Daae's treasure," I said under my breath. "Closer every day."

With the bag of tools slung over my shoulder, I made my way to the level beneath the stage, which I found empty as Madeline had said most of the theater inhabitants would be out at the festival for the day. I dropped the bag with a heavy, metallic thud onto a barrel and rummaged inside until I found a small piece of metal, which I fully intended to use for picking the lock on the heavily chained doors.

I rolled the tip of my tongue along my upper lip as I crouched down before the larger of the two doors and fumbled mindlessly with the lock. Despite all of the knots my uncle had tied, his skill in building a fire, catching fish, and a few sleight of hand tricks, he had not taught me how to pick a lock, which I very much regretted after several long moments of fruitless efforts. My back and neck ached from the angle, and once I dropped the piece of metal into the dirt frustration took over and I kicked the door.

This was much harder than I had recalled from escaping the cellar and the gypsy cage and-possessing little patience-I returned to the bag of tools and fetched the iron bolt cutters I had found in one of the many crates. I looked the lock over one more time and realized it was bigger than the one I had seen before. I wondered if someone was aware of trespassing or if someone else had left it unlocked at some point, thus leading to its replacement. Clearly by cutting the lock there would be no question someone had gotten into this part of the theater, but I did not care. I would cut it a thousand times if necessary.

The chains dropped like a snake made of iron falling from a tree and I dragged the links off to the side and left them neatly coiled. The lock itself I placed in my pack, deciding I could use it as practice once I returned home.

With everything packed away and left out of sight behind a barrel, I pulled open the double doors. Dust motes filled the fractured light streaming in from the top of the long ramp. There was a set of stone stairs to the left, which I took to the top and discovered a landing with a doorway marked _To Stage_ and another set of double doors leading into the alley. I stood on the tips of my toes and peered out through the small, dirt-covered window just as a cart pulled by a chestnut mare passed with a boy who appeared younger than me holding the reins. Behind him on foot was an older man with a large belly chewing on the end of a cigar. He glanced at the doorway where I stood but continued on his way and I sighed in relief once he was several steps away.

I stood for much longer than necessary with the sun on my face as I stared into the alley and listened as another horse and cart approached, this time driven by a young man who looked slightly older than me. He sat hunched over, eyes squinting in the sun as the horses came to a stop almost at the doors where I stood.

"Wait for him to turn around and then I will open the doors for you," a man out of my line of sight shouted.

The boy offered a wave of his hand before he began picking his teeth. He had dirt caked to his knuckles and long hair partially hidden beneath a shapeless hat that was also covered in dirt. I stared at him as he practically shoved his filthy hand into the back of his throat and picked his back teeth.

Footsteps shuffled toward me, the double wooden doors rattling as the unseen man suddenly stood before me on the opposite side of the door. He glanced up at the window and I swore he looked at me, but his expression never changed. The doors rattled, a heavy latch turned, and in a panic I stepped back, lost my footing, and fell backwards onto the dirt flooring.

My heart stuttered as panic fully set in. The man turned to say something to the driver and somehow I managed to scurry to my feet. There I stood for a long moment as I stared at the door as it began to open, weighing my options. I realized I would not make it down the ramp and out of sight before the man opened the door.

There was not much of a choice, I told myself. I bolted toward the narrow hallway leading to the stage just as the alley doors parted and bright sunlight flooded the open space and ramp.

"What in the hell was that?" I heard the man say as I disappeared through the doorway and quietly closed it behind me. I crouched down, body pressed to the wall and hoped they could not tell which way I had gone. I had no idea how far it was to the stage and if any of the doors in that directions were unlocked.

"Ain't nothing," the younger one answered.

"Aye, it was. Look at how the dirt is flying up everywhere, Clement."

"Rats?" Clement commented, seemingly disinterested in the conversation. Now that I saw him walking into the building he looked much older than me, most likely in his twenties. He had tattoos on his forearms and an uneven gait as though one leg was slightly longer than the other.

"Too big to be a rat. Unless it's one of dem da size of a farm dog." The older man, a gentleman with hair slicked back and a shirt stained in the armpits and around his collar, waved his hand in front of his face and attempted to blow some of the dust out of the air.

"Guide Mael in, would you?" Clement asked.

The older man led the horse by the halter down the ramp at a painfully slow pace. Even the horse looked bored by the endeavor.

My eyes itched and the familiar tickle of a sneeze made me turn away briefly. The other side of the doorway was much darker than the space I had previously occupied, and when I turned away I felt dizzy from the contrast of bright light to endless darkness. I stood very still and attempted to harness my breath as I allowed my gritty eyes a moment to adjust.

The younger man chuckled to himself. "You know, if it ain't rats it must be the Opera Ghost."

My heart stuttered and I dreaded what would happen if Madeline caught wind of another story involving the notorious Opera Ghost. Considering how the morning had gone I had no desire to have her question me about the afternoon when we ate on the rooftop.

"I'd send the ghost right back to Senora di Carlo," the older man commented. "Poor woman. Praise God she wasn't killed when she fell. You know what they've been sayin' about her."

"That I do," Clement replied grimly. "But these things do happen."

"Far too often, it seems. This is what? Third time this month she has fallen?"

Their words garnered my full attention. I turned my head to the side and considered reaching for the door, but I feared too greatly being caught. Still, I wanted nothing more than eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Eh, don't go about spreadin' no rumors."

"I ain't, I ain't. Just askin'."

"Do you think she will still perform tonight?" Clement asked.

The man grunted. "If you still want to have a job you better pray she does. The managers have spent far too much on this performance. Look at what you were haulin' yesterday. 'Nough wine for the whole damned country. And today you have 'nough bales of hay and bags of grain to feed every horse in all of Europe. It's madness! We ain't got room for all of this."

"Eh, relax. It'll all be gone in a few hours. Ain't going to hurt nothin' if some of this sits out in the alley for a bit. No rain to damage anything. Worst that'll happen is a few meddlin' brats poke around to see if there is anything worth eatin'."

My eyes adjusted enough where I was able to see down the hallway. Hands extended, I felt my way along until I reached a set of three stairs that led to another door with a small window and realized I was behind the stage and near the chapel.

I looked back in the direction I had come and paused, unsure of whether I should attempt to make my way through the theater and back to the other side of the lake or wait a moment for the two men to leave. With the double doors still open and the men standing at the bottom of the ramp, I doubted I would be quick enough to race past them unseen. Despite the theater being empty, I lacked confidence in finding my way back through the winding halls and to the cellar entrance on the other side. If I managed to lock myself out of the building in a middle of a festival I would most assuredly be caught. I could not take my chances. The stakes were far too high and I feared being caught would result in me being jailed and executed for killing Garouche.

I dipped my fingers into my trouser pocket and realized I had left my watch on my dresser as to not risk ruining one of my most valuable possessions in the water. Silently I cursed myself for outright foolishness as now I had no idea how much time had passed. If I was more than few minutes late meeting Madeline, she would come down to the cellar to search for me. The moment she discovered the cellar empty I had no doubt she would panic and assume the worst.

Behind me I heard several thuds from the two men placing whatever was in the cart onto the floor. The first one nearly made me jump out of my skin, but as they settled into a steady rhythm, I dared to creep forward and see if I could gage how long unloading the supplies for the performance might take. Leaving the same way I entered made the most sense-as long as I was patient enough to wait it out.

To my surprise, the load was much smaller than I expected, and I stood silently out of the way and watched as they removed and stacked a total of six bales of hay and four bags of grain.

The older man knocked the last bale of hay against the barrel where I had hidden my tools and I cringed at the metallic sound of screwdrivers, wrenches, and a hammer clattering in the bag.

"What was that?" the younger one asked.

"Eh, rubbish all tossed everywhere," the man said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"No," Clement said. He raised his hand to silence the older man. "Listen."

I pressed myself to the wall and held my breath, afraid the younger man had somehow heard me breathing. Agonizing seconds passed before I heard a woman moaning somewhere in the distance followed by a man telling her to be quiet.

My eyes widened as I realized what Clement had heard. Suddenly I felt grateful for my patience as the sound of a couple in a tryst came from the hall to my back.

The man chuckled to himself. "That ain't a ghost."

Clement rolled his eyes. "Someone is making the most of an empty dressing room during the festival."

"Eh!" the older man yelled.

Startled by his raised voice, I took another step back and nearly tripped over my own feet.

"Knock it off, will ya?" Clement shouted.

The amorous noise stopped immediately and the two men laughed to themselves as the older man climbed back into the cart and Clement took his turn leading the horse up the ramp. They closed the doors behind them and moments later I heard the wheels of the cart rumble over the cobblestones.

Without wasting a single second of time, I grabbed my hidden pack and took off running toward the lake, not bothering to look over my shoulder until I reached the edge of the water.

I realized I had left the chain still neatly coiled on the ground but didn't bother returning to the scene of my rather lackluster crime. Once someone discovered the chain cut in half, I had no doubt it would be replaced. At least I had the sense to grab the lock in order to practice a more stealthy entry the next time around.

By the time I reached the other side of the lake it was five minutes until noon and I scrambled to lace my boots, button my shirt properly, and sprint up the five flights of stairs. My heart raced, my body slick with perspiration as I nearly ran straight into the door in my haste. Once I mopped sweat from my forehead and the back of my neck, I reached for my mask, which I had tucked into my back pocket, and adjusted it in the dark. I held up my lantern and checked the time, seeing that I was five minutes later than expected.

Thankfully Madeline arrived fifteen minutes later than me and by that time my heart had stopped racing and I finally caught my breath.

"I apologize for making you wait. I was caught up on the other side of the theater," she said.

My expression immediately sobered and I stammered to find words. My first thought was the couple the two men had disturbed in the middle of their romantic rendezvous. Being that I thought of Madeline as a mother and a sister, I felt heat rise along the back of my neck and settle into my cheeks and immediately discarded the notion of the woman being my closest friend. Despite that she was several years older than me and perfectly capable of having a suitor, I did not want to think of her as being with any man. Ever.

"C-caught up?" I awkwardly responded.

"Delayed. Nothing, really."

"Oh." I stared at my shoes, finding it impossible to meet her eye.

"You are very flushed," she commented. "Is something wrong?"

"I ran up the stairs," I lied, forcing myself to meet her eye. I suppose it wasn't really a lie as I had ran the entire way fearing I was late, but my cheeks flushed for an entirely different reason, one which I did not want to explain.

However, when I looked at Madeline again, she looked entirely innocent without a hair out of place and her dress perfectly pressed, for which I was grateful. Far too many times I had stumbled upon a young man with her hair mussed and dress wrinkled after a stolen moment with one of Garouche's sons. Every time a woman sneaked out of a tent or tiptoed out of the woods they looked terribly suspicious. Madeline, however, looked more concerned about me than for herself.

"Well, I have no intention of running up the stairs. This is a day for being lazy. Are you ready?" she asked with an easy smile.

I took a deceptively heavy basket from her grasp and nodded. I took a quick step in front of her and held open the door leading to the rooftop. "Ready."


	21. Overlooking the Festival

Chapter 21

The rooftop was miserably hot with a steady breeze that felt like we stood in front of an open oven door. Still, despite the heat, I had no desire to complain as the sun was bright, the air was perfumed with the flowers nearby, and there was music in the air thanks to the festival. I was content merely being outside again after weeks of being indoors.

We spread out food on the ledge overlooking the fountain in the middle of the square to the left of Apollo. The large square was crowded with brightly colored tents and vendors squeezed into every available inch of space. Smoke from outdoor cooking wafted into the air along with the smell of the bakery.

"You look well considering when I saw you this morning you looked about ready to burst," Madeline said with a grin.

"Had you not shown up when you did I would have most assuredly been found split into several decent sized pieces."

"Messy."

Madeline took a piece of cheese and sat back with one hand planted behind on the wide ledge and her legs tucked beneath her. She leaned back as though she posed for an artist.

"There are so many people," I commented.

She made a noise of agreement and reached into the bag, producing a bottle of wine.

"Would you like some?"

I shook my head.

"Do you mind if I have a glass?"

Her question drew my eyes to the streets below. I shook my head, knowing full well why she asked for permission. "My father favored hard liquor, whiskey mostly, I think. He did not drink wine that I can recall."

Neither of us spoke for a long moment after that.

"The festival just started, really," Madeline said suddenly. "Give it another few hours and you will see a real party, although for the most part the crowds move that way once it gets dark," she said as she pointed off to the right. "More drinking in bigger tents. And louder music."

I nodded to myself, unsure if I wanted to witness people below us drinking and weaving in and out of tents. Absently I rubbed my right forearm. Whenever I blocked Garouche's blows, it always seemed to be with my right arm crossed in front of the left as a shield. I felt where bruises had taken up permanent residence on my flesh for months on end, deep and dark and tender. The laughter below us made me shiver as I thought of what always followed a beating.

"You are wearing the mask again," Madeline said as she casually sipped her wine.

"It's quite comfortable," I said. Compared to the wooden mask my father had forced me to wear and the cloth one I had lost along the way from my time with my uncle to traveling with the gypsies, the collection of masks I had found in the cellar were truly an improvement.

"Even in the heat?" She turned her head and squinted at me as she faced toward the sun.

I shrugged. "I don't mind."

"Neither do I."

I wasn't sure if it was her words or the noise below us, but I felt more uncomfortable than I wished to admit. Rather than continue speaking, I popped grapes into my mouth one by one and stared at the city before us.

I told myself that had it been nighttime I would have ventured onto the street, but I knew that was not true. There were far too many people, roving eyes to steal a glance at my masked face and quick hands to search my pockets-or worse.

"Oh, I meant to tell you this morning," Madeline said as she leaned forward and tapped my knee. "Kimmer."

A single name garnered my full attention. I swallowed the grapes and turned to look at her again.

Madeline frowned. "I'm afraid I do not have good news. The list of patrons says the name P.H. Kimmer. Your cousin's name is…"

"Joshua is his middle name," I answered. After a long moment I added, "Valgarde Joshua, I think?"

It had been so long since my uncle had said the name of his son that I couldn't remember my cousin's first name.

Madeline snapped her fingers. "Yes, that's right. You told me Joshua. Definitely not a P.H., then." She took another sip of wine and pursed her lips. "Perhaps still related? Is he old enough to have a son in his late teens or early twenties?"

"I wouldn't think so." I knew my cousin was older than me, but by ten to fifteen years at the most.

"Was there mention of another uncle?"

I shrugged. My hope of finding my cousin had been fleeting for so long that I had completely forgotten about him and I suspected he had done the same with me. "If we are related, whoever he is would not know who I am."

"Well, this P.H Kimmer should be there tonight," Madeline offered. "Third row, seat number fifteen. It wouldn't hurt to at least see what he looks like."

What would I do, I wanted to ask? Stroll up to a complete stranger in the middle of a crowded theater and introduce myself? My story seemed concocted at best, even in my own mind. There was no feasible way I could approach a man with my uncle's last name, tell him I had been whisked away from my parents' home in a town I could not recall the name and ended up in Paris after ten months of being held on display by gypsies. Worse still, I lived like a rat beneath the Opera House in the cellar.

"I have no family to find," I said.

"Your cousin is still out there somewhere," Madeline offered. There was a sort of forced cheerfulness to her voice and I was certain she did not believe her own words.

"Somewhere," I muttered. "But not looking for me."

"You don't know that for sure."

Joshua had no reason to look for me and I felt no reason to track him down. The only information I had about my living relative was that he resided in Paris. I could not recall my uncle ever saying what his son did for a living, if he was married, had children, or any other detail that would have proved useful.

I struggled with the idea of Joshua Kimmer giving me a second thought once the letters from his father stopped arriving. As I watched the crowds, I wondered if he could be in the swell of people down below, completely oblivious to the fact that a member of his family sat on the ledge some sixty to seventy feet above him. To him I was nothing more than a name in a letter.

The stone ledge became uncomfortable after sitting in the same position for son long, and I swung my legs over the ledge, feet dangling. I shifted and pulled up my mask to wipe my face as I leaned forward to see the street below. Looking straight down proved to be a mistake, and my stomach flipped as the distance we sat above the city threatened to get the best of me.

Madeline gasped and dropped her fork onto her plate. "Erik, no!" she exclaimed.

Her words were spoken with such desperation that I pulled myself away from the ledge and toward the rooftop. In the same moment Madeline shot forward, her hand grasping a fistful of my shirt. Our collective movement was jarring and I almost tumbled flat onto my back. My shoulders dipped down, my back arched safely over the rooftop with Madeline practically on top of me.

I clenched my stomach muscles to sit upright again, but had to twist and grab hold of the ledge before I rolled to the pebbles beneath me. Releasing my shirt, Madeline inhaled sharply and said something under her breath that I could not make out clearly.

Once I had my barings I realized Madeline stood over me, her body rigid, skirts gently drifting around her ankles. Her left hand was held over her heaving chest. Her wine glass that was either tipped over by her sudden movement or blown by the wind, tumbled off the edge and shattered on the rooftop.

"I was not…" My voice trailed away. I wasn't sure what to tell her.

Madeline took a deep, trembling breath and nodded. Her cheeks were quite flushed, more from the heat I suspected than anything else. She fanned herself before attempting to pull her hair back from her face, but with the wind her effort was futile.

"I thought you were going to fall."

"No, you thought I was going to jump," I said under my breath.

She stood for a long moment and looked from me to the streets below. I followed her gaze to the stream of people moving in different directions. No one bothered to look up as the sun beat down on the streets and suddenly I had no desire to look at them either.

"I did not know what would happen," Madeline said under her breath before she finally lowered to the ledge and sat beside me again. Before my eyes she turned several shades whiter. Absently she reached for her wine glass, then remembered it had fallen off the edge and onto the roof. With a frown, she pulled the cork from the bottle with a trembling hand and took a long swig.

Her actions surprised me, but I did not question her. Now that she was seated again I felt quite ashamed that the only person I had to call a friend thought I would jump from the roof.

"You have been upset lately," Madeline said at last. She tucked the bottle of wine into her bag and stared straight ahead. "I do not know what to do."

"You do not need to do anything," I answered.

"But I feel like I should," she said, her tone almost defensive. Her damp lips formed a deep frown, her eyes forlorn.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I brought you here," she said firmly. From the corner of my eye I watched as she turned to look at me again. "You are correct. When you stopped talking, I did think you were going to jump. I thought you would slide off the rooftop and onto the street without speaking another word to me."

"I had nothing more to say," I answered meekly.

Madeline rubbed her eye with her knuckles. "I truly wish you spoke more."

I was not sure what to say to make Madeline believe me. Not only did the height make my stomach queasy, but the thought of falling from such a distance made my skin prickle. Now that I was seated further from the edge, I regretted dangling my legs over the side of the building.

"I am a coward," I said quietly, more for my own ears than hers.

Madeline brushed her hair back from her face. "Pardon me?"

"I said I am a coward." I refused to look at her, to see the judgment in her eyes. "I would not jump from here."

"I did not mean to insinuate that you would. My apologies if I insulted you. It's simply that..."

She didn't finish her thought. Silently I filled in the rest of her sentence in the only way I knew how; through the most self deprecating thoughts I could conjure up.

 _You are a boy who was never wanted._

 _You wear a mask because your face is so hideous no one wishes to see it._

 _You spend more time sitting in silence than making polite conversation._

 _You belonged in a cage._

 _You are evil._

 _You are nothing._

 _You are not real._

 _...I wish you were real._

I blinked several times once I realized I had resorted to silence again. No wonder Madeline thought I would jump to my death. I wondered if I could come up with an equally long list of reasons I wished to live.

"I fear what would happen if I were to jump," I told her, my voice so low I was not sure if she could hear me. It was as good of a reason as I could think of off the top of my head and quite possibly the most honest one. "Not the fall, really, but death, I suppose."

"Isn't that what most people fear?" Madeline asked with a shrug.

I didn't know what else to say, and so I said nothing.

"Are you upset with me?" she asked after a long span of dreadful silence.

"No," I said quickly. "Never."

I scooted further from the edge and toward the safety of the roof. My plate was empty and our food gone, giving me little distraction.

"My silence has nothing to do with you," I told her. "It's just..."

She blinked, quietly waiting for me to continue. Something about her sullen expression hinted at hurt feelings.

My chest felt suddenly tighter, like something squeezed my heart and lungs. I attempted to take a deep breath, but the air refused to fill me. I was going to suffocate on my own sorrow, on these feelings that had spilled out from me and now threatened Madeline as well.

"No one has wanted to speak to me for a very long time," I finished at last. The aching continued, almost burned through my chest. "My uncle was the only one who ever cared to hear my voice. Most of the time when I do not speak it is because I do not know what to say."

"Neither do I."

"Is that what most people fear?"

"Maybe." Madeline twisted her hair and attempted to pin it back unsuccessfully before she gave up and let it tumble over her shoulders. She muttered something under her breath and reached for her bag again. Three apricots rolled out and bumped against my outstretched leg.

"I forgot about those," Madeline said. She offered an uncomfortable laugh.

My hands were large enough to hold all three at the same time, and I thought of how I had amused myself during the early hours of the fair when no one was around by trying my hand at juggling.

It took me almost a month to successfully keep three objects in the air and I was careful to keep my hidden treasures and talent to myself. I never advanced to anything like knives or batons on fire, but I could keep small pebbles or hollow wooden balls in the air long enough, sometimes even with small tricks like bouncing a ball off my forearm or catching a pebble behind my back.

"What are you doing?" Madeline asked.

"I have no idea," I answered as I tossed them into the air one by one to test my reflexes.

I was terribly out of practice and had not a single ounce of faith in myself that I would be able to catch two of the apricots, let alone all three. The wind was strong enough to blow them out of my reach with a decent gust, and yet I wanted the distraction, even if only for a heartbeat.

Legs crossed tailor-style, I cleared my throat and straightened my back. Again I tossed the three pieces of fruit in the air and kept them from hitting the ledge for several exciting seconds.

I caught all three apricots awkwardly but smiled to myself nonetheless. At no point were all three out of my grasp at the same time, but I did not care. I bounced one off my forearm, miscalculating the density, and watched as it rolled off my forearm and landed on the bend of my knee.

"Well," I said.

"That was…" Madeline worked her jaw and gestured as though she struggled to catch the words from the air.

"Terrible," I finished on Madeline's behalf.

She smiled at last. "Now you must eat the fruit you bruised up with your juggling."

I took a bite of the first one and felt juice drip down my chin. My stomach was full, but I finished the first apricot and wiped my mouth. With the sun behind me, I looked up at the statue of Apollo and closed my eyes for a moment. Several different musical performances took place around the Opera House, the sound weaving together in tangled melodies. I wrinkled my nose and pulled them apart in my mind, listening to one particular meter before I turned my head and picked up another song. What I lacked in my ability to juggle, I made up tenfold in music.

Madeline gasped and my eyes popped open in time to see Madeline's fingers tap me on the arm as she leaned forward.

"Look!" Madeline exclaimed.

I squinted and followed her finger pointing far below. "What am I looking for?" I asked.

"The navy officers," Madeline said. Her fingers stopped tapping and tangled in my shirt sleeve momentarily. She used my shoulder to brace herself and climbed to her feet, then hopped off the ledge and landed smoothly onto the rooftop gravel.

Dusting her hands off on her skirt, she knelt and began picking up shards of glass. Unsure of what to do, I slid off the ledge and knelt beside her, and together we picked up the broken pieces.

"Are you expecting the navy at the performance tonight?" I asked.

Madeline giggled to herself. "No, no, not all of them. Perhaps one of them."

Again she pushed her hair from her face and I noticed how rosy her cheeks appeared. The gleam in her eye made me realize the flush to her face had nothing to do with the heat on the rooftop. I studied her for a long moment while she was preoccupied with picking the glass from the rooftop, noticed the smile still lingering on her lips. My heart sank, and when Madeline glanced up at me, I looked away.

She was expecting a visitor. Her time was about to be divided three ways: her duties in the Opera House, a suitor, and lastly me.


	22. Distractons

Young Kire has quite a bit to say lately, so if you're reading, please let me know! I can see how many views each chapter has, but I would love to hear from some of you on what you think so far!

Chapter 22

We sat for a while on the stone bench in the middle of the garden once the men in uniform disappeared into a tent and were lost from sight.

Madeline did not elaborate on who she wanted to see and I did not ask, mostly because I hoped whoever he was would simply leave and be forgotten-or better yet that he would become turned around and never find his way to the Opera House.

Clouds replaced the scorching sun, and the remainder of the time we sat on the rooftop was more cool and pleasant. Still, I unbuttoned and rolled up my sleeves as I felt perspiration slick against my arms and back, which made my clothes stick to my flesh.

Madeline talked about the performance taking place in the evening, which turned into smaller tangents about what she planned to wear, how she planned to fix her hair, and how she was missing a pair of shoes but suspected one of the other dancers named Anne had them in the dormitories.

She was more talkative than usual, which I suspected was due to the two glasses of wine and wig out of the bottle she had enjoyed. While Madeline had always been pleasant, she rambled on and gestured wildly, once almost hitting me in the jaw with her loosely held fist, which she did not seem to notice.

For the most part I did not mind her wobbly state. When I escaped my parents' cellar I saw men who wandered off back home, or at least in the diretion they thought they lived, after a night spent at the taverns. From the shadows I watched as their paths zigzagged through the streets, and on more times than I could count, I found a man slumped in an alley or face-down in the street.

Some became loud and obnoxious, others surly and looking for an argument-or worse. And then there were the individuals like Madeline who sat close to whomever was near and giggled at absolutely nothing.

"What about you?" she asked suddenly. Her breath smelled sweet, her eyes blinking slowly. I had no idea what she was talking about as I had stopped listening to her and began picking apart the music in the streets below. "What are you going to wear?"

"Clothes," I answered dryly.

She made a noise, almost like a snort that ended with her head throw back in a laugh.

"Yes, yes, I would certainly hope so." Madeline pursed her lips and sat back, eyeing me briefly. "You are so tall and look so nice in a suit, though, and a night at the opera is a night for dressing up," she commented. "Tailors would love to customize a suit for you with your stature."

I mumbled something incoherent, unable to loosen my knotted tongue. Even if her words were fueled by a little too much wine, I had no idea what to do with her compliment.

Her fingers brushed against my right shoulder and I felt my stomach tighten at her light, unexpected touch. "You have such broad shoulders." She offered a close-lipped smile and looked me over again. "Just like my brother."

I nodded, feeling almost grateful for the comparison to her brother. Drunken men-and sometimes stone sober ones as well-had often led young ladies with a glass or two of wine in them off into the alleys or inns. Women followed quite willingly, stumbling out of sight and into the darkness. Many returned looking somewhat haunted and uncertain, and as I thought of the regret in their eyes, I did not want Madeline to think I had lascivious intentions.

I knew all too well that accusations were often baseless due to my appearance alone. I thought frequently of my uncle's words of warning: I would have to try harder than others to find acceptance and would always have to conduct myself in a manner becoming of a gentleman. If I could take pride in nothing else, I was content in knowing I had never harmed a woman, child, or animal. That was my saving grace-at least at the age of thirteen.

"And do you know what else?" She tapped me on the shoulder even though we were face-to-face. "You look very nice in dark colors, brown or blue will definitely bring out your eyes."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"To bring out one's eyes."

Madeline thought for a moment. She pursed her lips tightly together and looked up, her eyes became larger, her pupils noticeably dilated. "I have never thought about it before. I suppose it means your eyes would be more noticeable."

She smiled and giggled before she clapped her hand over her mouth. "I apologize," she said, her words mumbled as she kept her hand over her lips. "I have had far too much wine on my day off. Normally I would not indulge but..."

In the middle of her thought, Madeline uncrossed her legs and leaned back much further than she expected, and suddenly her legs were higher than her head. I caught her by the arm and righted her, but not before she released a high-pitched scream of surprise.

Without thinking I hopped over the bench and backed into a rose bush, heedless of the thorns scraping against my calves. My actions were purely a reflex, something ingrained within me after months of being accused of staring at Garouche's daughters, nieces, and even his wife.

"I-I apologize if I harmed you," I said under my breath. My arms felt heavy and useless at my side, and I first tried crossing them, then stuffing my hands in my pockets, but nothing felt normal. From the corner of my eye I watched as Madeline straightened her skirt and cleared her throat.

A sense of guilt washed over me for grabbing her arm despite no ill intentions. I also felt remorse for being so close to her when clearly she was inebriated. As I had done so many times before, I attempted to think up the proper apology for a misstep. It never mattered if I was truly at fault; the words were always expected of me.

Madeline's laughter had stopped abruptly and I swore the scream echoed over the rooftop and refused to meld with the music far below. My hand felt hot where I had touched her bare flesh, and I saw her looking at her arm where I had grabbed her. My fingers left red marks on her skin, which alarmed me as I had not thought I held her tight enough to cause damage.

"I did not intend to hurt you," I said when she did not speak. Her silence petrified me, and a sinking feeling pulled me down until I sat with my back against the rose bush and gravel digging into the seat of my pants.

"I know." Strands of hair obscured her face, but this time she made no attempt to pull her hair back. "This was my fault, not yours."

"Your arm-"

Madeline shook her head. "You kept me from falling."

"But I still hurt you-"

"You did no such thing." Her eyes met mine at last and she offered a smile as she motioned to me, much like a mother offering a silent apology after scolding a child. "Please do not sit on the rocks."

I stood and adjusted my mask. Madeline studied my forearms and I followed her gaze to the long scratches down my arms from the thorns. I reached around and felt along the back of my shirt to see if I had torn the fabric, which thankfully I had not.

"I should have brought coffee, not a bottle of wine," Madeline said more to herself than to me. She looked at me again and forced a smile. "Please, sit. If you do not wish to speak to me I do not mind, but please do not stand there."

I did as she requested and seated myself with my legs angled away from her and my sweating palms resting on my knees.

"I am terribly ashamed of my behavior and have no excuse," Madeline said.

I was not sure if she planned to elaborate, but she did not say more and I sat staring at my hands for a long moment.

"Garouche," I said quietly. The silence between us became unbearable. I felt as though I owed her an explanation for scurrying away from her as I had done. "The man from the fair, the one I…"

 _Murdered_ seemed like far too harsh of a word. I had not killed him for any other reason than I was sick of being beaten four times a day in front of a crowd. I could not tolerate another moment of humiliation, of being laid out, belly-down, before strangers paying to see my face.

"The one who struck you?"

I nodded. "His daughter, the younger one, she once nearly had a pole from the tent we were erecting fall on her. I pushed her out of the way, but her father only saw me shove his daughter, not the pole almost flatten her. Everything happened so quickly that I did not realize I nearly fell on top of her, but her father certainly did. He thought I would...take advantage of her."

Those were not his exact words, but at the time I did not fully understand what they thought I intended to do to Roxana in the middle of the day surrounded by twenty members of her extended family. Garouche made it clear he would not tolerate my insatiable perversions. Several times he had warned me to not look at his daughters, however, he did not realize my interest was the horses Roxana and Lipa rode, not the girls standing on the backs of their geldings.

Just as my father and his friends had threatened castration, so had Garouche and his sons. Without my uncle's protection, Garouche and his two oldest sons did not simply frighten me; they left me in a heap in the middle of the wagons so dazed I could not move and in far too much agony to crawl away.

"The girl you saved did not speak up?" Madeline asked.

I shrugged, which seemed to be my main form of answering questions. I inhaled and forced myself to speak. "Eventually," I mumbled.

By the time Roxana told her father what had happened, her words were fairly useless. Garouche clubbed me in the knees and shins, making it impossible for me to stand for long, while his sons ripped straight through my trousers from the middle of my thighs to my ankles.

"I did not think you would harm me, if that is your concern," Madeline said swiftly. She leaned forward and touched the back of my hand gently to garner my attention and waited to speak once I met her eye. "Truly, you remind me of my brother right down to the way you shrug your shoulders. He was quiet like you are, and I could never tell if it was merely because he was always lost in thought or because I simply talk too much."

"I do not think you talk too much," I answered.

"Neither did Thomas." Madeline grinned at my words. "You are too kind."

No one had ever described me as kind, let alone too kind.

Madeline looked me over again. "I hope you do not think less of me and that you will accept my apology."

I found no reason for her to apologize to me, but I nodded all the same. I looked away briefly and attempted to put together appropriate words in my head. Madeline meant everything to me, similar to how I had felt about my uncle. I wanted to express that I loved her in a way I wished I was able to love my own mother, but I feared sounding like an overly dramatic fool.

And just like that my moment to tell her anything at all was suddenly lost to silence. She stood and inhaled sharply.

"I suppose we could return to the cellar if you wish," Madeline said as she picked up her bag. The pack was lighter now, but I still offered to carry it on her behalf. I grabbed it before she could and placed it on the bench.

As much as I wished to stay outside a bit longer, I found myself nodding in agreement. My biggest fear was that she would find my company intolerable if I disagreed and her visits would become less frequent.

"Would you like to visit for a while? I found some music in one of the crates. I could play something," I offered.

She was looking toward Apollo, a slight smile on her lips. "No, I think I will come back before the performance. This will give you time to practice," she answered before she caught herself in a daydream and turned to me and motioned for me to stand. "I think I will walk through the festival for a bit if you do not mind."

Madeline reached the doorway leading to the stairs long before I stood. She did not see the devastation I knew clung to my visage or my hesitation to stand and follow her. We were supposed to spend the day together, but now, after a few hours on the rooftop, she was leaving.

We walked down the stairs in the same manner as we had walked to the rooftop, with Madeline talking the entire time and me simply nodding in agreement.

"I will see you tonight," she promised as she left me at the cellar door to return to the lakeside alone.

I stood for a long moment after she disappeared down the hall, unsure of why she left in such a hurry but certain it was somehow my fault. She was out of my sight when I called her name once. I waited to see if she would return, but either she did not hear me speak or did not care I said her name. There was someone else on her mind.

She did not return to the cellar to hear me play. In fact, I did not see Madeline until she hurried into Box Five after the lights had been dimmed and the performance had started.

I was not happy. Not at all.


	23. Cathedra's Last Performance

Chapter 23

In short I was jealous. Jealous as a boy of thirteen could possibly be of anyone or anything in the world. And being a jealous young man, I stewed internally, growing ever more livid by the moment as I restlessly paced the length of the cavern floor.

The problem was, I had no face or name for my jealousy. All I knew was that Madeline was quite interested in someone from the French Navy. In a sense, I hated nothing at all but the time taken away from me by this nameless, faceless man of the sea.

Still, I attempted to convince myself that Madeline had given her word that she would pay a visit before the performance. Up until fifteen minutes before the start of the show I remained confident that Madeline would indeed walk down to the fifth cellar to hear me play the new piece of music I had found.

To my chagrin she did not, and I played the same damnable piece of music over and over until I realized she was not coming to see me. I scrambled to find something suitable to wear, heedless of whether or not it brought out my eyes-a term that still made no sense to me-or whether it was suitable at all for a night at the opera.

I trudged up the stairs, listening to the hiss of my lamp, the way the soles of my shoes scraped against the stone steps like glass paper across wood, and my own harsh breathing with the occasional curse thrown in.

In the back of my mind I could see my uncle roll his eyes and shake his head at me, but I was quite content in my miserable state and made no attempt to pick up my feet or cease my petulence.

Twice I checked my watch and saw that it was close to curtain, which made me nervous as I suspected Madeline knew different passages with fewer people potentially lurking.

Somehow I made it through the halls and up the stairs to Box Five unseen where I stepped over the rope holding a sign baring admittance, threw back the heavy curtain, and frowned when I discovered I was very much alone.

I slumped in my chair and parted the curtain obscuring my view of the stage, leaving it open wide enough for anyone who had bothered to look up to see me peering out. Given my mood, I was liable to wave my hands about and make noises suitable for a ghost before I took off down the hall and returned to the cellar.

A tall, thin gentleman came out onto the stage and said a few words that did not interest me. He profusely thanked the patrons seated before him and read off a few names, but I had not paid attention until he came to the last two, which I did not recognize.

I sat forward, resting my forearms on the ledge, and counted three rows back from the orchestra and fifteen seats from the aisle. There was a woman seated where Madeline had said P.H. Kimmer would be. I could not see her face, but she had light brown hair pulled up into a twisted style with glimmering pins catching the last of the light in the theater. I watched as she fanned herself with her program for a few minutes before I looked away and scanned the rest of the I had not already been terribly disappointed perhaps I would have felt something stronger than indifference.

The dancers were easy to pick out from the crowd as they sat off to the side and they were all younger and built like sturdy yet delicate reeds. The ballet mistress sat behind them with her arms crossed. Everything about her was dark from her clothing to her hair, and she looked like an iron statue with a porcelain mask, her expression never changing. She looked up toward the box seats and I sat back, holding my breath for a long moment until she faced the stage again.

At last the curtain parted and two female members of the chorus came out to sing an American wartime song I was not familiar with about a woman named Clementine. They were dressed as rag dolls and scampered around the stage, much to the amusement of the crowd.

Footsteps padded along the carpeted hall behind me and I twisted in my chair, my eyes wide and heart stuttering as the curtain blocking out the light in the hallway rustled.

"What have I missed?" Madeline asked as she ducked through the curtain and sat beside me. She was clearly out of breath.

"Nothing," I answered.

For a brief moment I completely forgot she had not come to visit as she had said. I looked at her, she smiled back and handed me a program before gently squeezing my arm.

"I apologize for being late," she whispered.

I merely nodded, partly because the music had started and partly because I was still displeased by her arriving late and that was as much as I could do given the circumstances.

From the corner of my eye I attempted to steal glances at Madeline as she sat beside me, hoping to glean information about her apparent afternoon rendezvous. I noticed immediately that Madeline looked different, her complexion producing a pleasant glow while her lips remained curled into a curious smile. Clearly she had found much better company than I could ever hope to be. My mood darkened.

She leaned forward, her eyes leaving the stage for the audience, and I attempted to follow her gaze without being noticed. After several seconds of pretending to read the program she had handed me, I realized she had her full attention on a group of men dressed in full naval attire seated below us. She studied them for much longer than was necessary before she sat back, fanned herself with her program, and leaned toward me again.

"It's hot in here," she whispered.

I shrugged, wanting to tell her she might not have been so uncomfortable if she had not sprinted up the stairs. Madeline smiled in return and continued to fan herself until a break in the music and the return of the gentleman on stage once again pandering to the crowd.

"Cathedra is singing for the next hour," Madeline said. "They are going to have to wrestle her off the stage if they plan on having anyone else perform."

"I like her voice," I commented.

"I know but…"

"She is very talented," I said.

Madeline paused, perhaps sensing I was in no mood for light conversation or disparaging remarks toward Cathedra. "Yes she is." She started to say something else but reconsidered and thumbed through her program in the dark.

We sat in complete silence through three arias before Cathedra stood in the center of the stage and took her bow, her toes practically hanging off the edge and into the orchestra pit until the crowd settled.

"Hello, hello, good evening. You are wonderful, wonderful." She paused and the crowd cheered. Once they quieted, she looked quite somber, and her Italian accent became so thick it was almost difficult to understand what she said. "This will be my final season," she said.

Madeline as well as the rest of the people in attendance drew in a breath of surprise. I looked around at the stunned audience, then at Madeline, who had climbed to her feet and held her hand over her heart.

"Oh my God," Madeline whispered.

Cathedra motioned for the crowd to settle, but the buzz was already in the air and several men stood and exited the theater only to appear on stage moments later. One man clutched Cathedra's arm, but she immediately pulled way, thanked her family and the patrons, and then turned to walk off the stage.

The crowd murmured still, despite the tall gentleman attempting to regain control. He rambled on about what other performances were still to come when Cathedra returned to the center of the stage with an armful of rose bouquets and her dresser trailing behind her with a silk robe in hand.

"Thank you, thank you, I have one more thing to say." The crowd sat in virtual silence, not so much as a rustle of paper or delicate cough from anywhere in the building. "I would also like to thank my dearest opera ghost," she said.

The crowd went from silence to gentle murmur to outright mayhem, but Cathedra remained perfectly still. Madeline twisted and stared at me, but I did not meet her eye. I sat like a statue, unable to comprehend Cathedra's unexpected words directed at me.

"Did you send her another note?" Madeline whispered loudly.

I shook my head. I had done nothing at all.

"Erik-" she warned.

"I swear it," I said, my eyes trained on the stage.

Cathedra raised both hands, palms out, and the crowd hushed as though she controlled their every move.

"He is listening," Cathedra said. "He hears every sweet note. Careful what you say about him, ladies and gentleman, he is precious to me. If you close your eyes, you can see him too."

With a wide smile on her face, the soprano dropped her arms to her sides, murmured something to the men attempting to guide her off the stage, and took two steps before she collapsed in a horrifying heap nearly into the orchestra pit.

I shot out of my seat in alarm, but there was nothing I could do besides gawk like the rest of the theater patrons. Several women shrieked, and a barrel-chested man dressed in a garish shade of red pounded onto the stage and angrily waved his hands.

"You have killed her, you have killed my wife!" he shouted in a thick Spanish accent.

"Shut up!" another man who had come to her aid shouted back. "She is breathing. Now be quiet before you upset every damned person in the theater!"

Madeline pushed hard against my chest and pulled the curtains closer to together. "Get back before someone sees you," she ordered.

"No one is looking this way," I snapped. I remained where she had placed me, out of the way and out of sight.

Morbid curiosity drew everyone's attention to the stage as several more people ran to the soprano's side. Her husband yelled for a physician, which was followed by two men raising their hands in the audience and climbing up on stage. One of the men in uniform joined the organized chaos and helped Senor di Carlo lift Cathedra, who had not yet stirred. Within minutes she was carried off stage, her arms uselessly swaying with each step. Her dresser gathered the rose bouquets and skittered after the soprano, and with that the stage was empty and the crowd became uneasy.

"Curtain!" someone shouted. "We will resume in fifteen minutes!"

"I'm afraid I will not be able to stay after the performance," Madeline said. "I am sure the ballet mistress is already searching for me."

"Senora di Carlo has fallen quite frequently this month," I said more to myself than to Madeline.

My words drew Madeline's attention and she looked suspiciously at me. "Where did you hear that?" she asked as she looked me over carefully.

"I overheard a conversation."

"When?"

"Today." Conveniently I left out the part about swimming across the lake, cutting a lock, and eavesdropping on two men making a delivery.

"Ah, yes, I'm sure you overheard quite a bit."

My heart stuttered, and for half a moment I thought somehow she knew I had been by the stage.

"People say all sorts of things." Madeline grunted. "Unfortunately the rumors about Cathedra are true."

"What is wrong with her?" I asked. As soon as I spoke, I cringed at how insensitive my words sounded to my own ears. "Nothing serious, I hope."

"Unfortunately, it's very physician thinks she has a tumor in her brain, but she does not want anyone else to know." Madeline answered.

More commotion in the theater paused our conversation. A younger woman off to the far left of the stage was ushered through a side door.

Madeline nodded toward the closing side door. "That was Cathedra's cousin, Carlotta. Her only living relative. She is the one who told the theater manager Cathedra's prognosis."

"Does Senora di Carlo want people to know she is ill?"

Madeline frowned. "No she does not. Unfortunately I have heard people say that Cathedra prays to join her mother and sisters. I do not think she will be able to keep her secret, especially after tonight."

My lips parted but I had no idea what to say in return. I sat back in my chair and absently reached for my program, which I had set on the ledge. I thumbed through it and attempted to focus on something other than the chatter of the crowd.

I wished to contact Cathedra once more, to tell her I was no ghost, but I imagined she would be surrounded by friends, patrons, and theater staff around the clock now that she had passed out on stage. At least she would not be alone, I told myself. At least she would not pass unknown in the woods, buried with nothing more than a few stones to mark her grave. The passing thought made me shudder.

"Do you think Senora di Carlo will sing again?" I asked.

Madeline pursed her lips. There was an uneasy look in her eyes. "If we do not perform, we do not get paid," she said.


	24. Passing Time

Chapter 24

The performance did not resume in fifteen minutes, partially due to Senor di Carlo's blatant refusal to leave the stage. Had the circumstances been different, his childish display of sitting in the middle of the stage would have been laughable. However, given that Cathedra was presumably still backstage and not yet conscious, the crowd still milling around within the theater did not know what to make of him.

About half the patrons had left the theater during the extended intermission. Row C, seat 15 was still empty, as were the majority of the seats in proximity. Madeline, who had said she wanted to speak to the ballet mistress, weaved her way through a throng of young dancers who had come running the moment they spotted her.

From Box Five, I saw precisely why she had been given the name Mother by her fellow dancers. Everyone from pink-cheeked girls who could not have been older than six years of age to young ladies Madeline's age rushed up to greet her. The younger ones flung their arms around Madeline's waist while she smoothed back their hair and kissed the tops of their heads.

Within minutes, she was completely surrounded not only by dancers, but by a few other people; stage hands and seamstresses by the looks of it. Madeline took her time and spoke to everyone with rapt attention. I watched as she gracefully swept from one person to the next and offered a reassuring nod of her head or gentle touch to the shoulder of whomever stood before her.

Absently I touched my own forearm, mimicking her movements as she spoke to a younger boy before he scampered off. I felt strangely proud as I watched her interactions with her theater family. She was clearly loved and respected by everyone around her.

"Anne Edwards!"

Madeline immediately turned her attention away from another dancer who looked to be around her age and searched for the voice calling somewhere below where I sat. I stood, leaned over the balcony edge, and saw a man in Navy attire make his way across the row of seats and down the aisle where Madeline stood.

I had forgotten her given name was Anne and not Madeline. I assumed Edwards was her last name, however, I was certain she had never told me.

Madeline offered a wave and bright smile as the man made his way toward her. She excused herself and trotted toward him with her arms extended.

I plopped back into my chair and gave an exasperated sigh, partially hoping Madeline would hear me. Arms crossed, I watched the man greet her with a bow before he took her hand and made a wide, sweeping gesture that was far too dramatic for my taste. Madeline placed her hand over her heart while her call pretended to pepper the back of her hand with multiple kisses. This, of course, made her erupt with laughter while I slouched in my seat and quaked with utter disdain.

This was undoubtedly the man she had gone to find during the festival, the gentleman who had most likely also kept her longer than she anticipated, thereby ruining my chance to play the music I had found.

My jealousy returned tenfold now that I could see him in his officer's uniform. He was tall and lean, his movements graceful and almost calculated as though he had thought out his every move. He stood with his shoulders back and his head held high like some damnable show horse.

"Gaetan!" Madeline said with a laugh as she clutched his arm. "No, no, you are too kind."

My interest in their interaction quickly faded. My spine curled to his perfect posture, my head held low while he tipped his chin up. He laughed, I scowled, and when he looked at Madeline and smiled, I abruptly stood and walked out of Box Five.

I would have returned to the lakeside, but there was someone coming up the stairs toward the box seats. Without a second though I hurdled over the golden braided rope blocking off Box Five and practically dived on to the plush carpeting. I hit the inside wall shoulder first and stifled a curse as agonizing seconds ticked by and I waited for whomever walked up the stairs to continue on their way or discover me pinned to the corner.

"See? I told you there was nothing up here," a male voice said. "You are thinking of Ivory Palace."

Another voice replied, but I had no idea what was said. I sat upright and leaned against the wall as I sulked in the shadows. At any moment I could have returned home, but there was nothing to do besides sit, and since I was already seated I had no desire to move.

Someone came out on the stage and said the next act would begin briefly, which was followed by the lights dimming momentarily. The opera box became so dark with the lights dimmed that from where I sat on the floor I could not see my hand in front of my face.

"Er-" Madeline's voice made me jump. She walked into the box and turned in a full circle before she walked back out, then in again and reached for her program. Our eyes met and she gasped once she saw me on the floor. "God in Heaven, what are you doing?"

"Sitting," I answered.

"How are you going to watch the rest of the performance from there?"

I shrugged. Madeline took her seat and eyed me briefly.

"His name is Commander Gaetan Giry," Madeline said as she sat back and casually crossed her ankles. "He is in Paris for a month and then he is off to sea again."

I stared at my knees, which I had drawn up to my chest. I was not sure how to respond to her words as I had fully expected her to chastise me for sitting on the floor like a defiant brat.

"He knew both of my brothers and has met my parents," she continued. I noticed the glow returned to her face and she smiled as she stared out at the theater. "It's been almost nine months since I last saw Gaetan, and I will tell you honestly it is wonderful to see his face again."

Her features were relaxed, her tone so matter-of-fact that I appreciated the direct nature in which she spoke to me.

"I am sure we will spend a great deal of time together while he is in town," she said as she leaned forward and met my eye. "But, Erik, please understand that if I do not visit as often as I have in the past, it is not meant as a sleight toward our friendship. Gaetan is very dear to me."

I sat back and nodded, pretending to consider her words for a moment longer when I knew without a doubt I could not be angry with her for wishing to see a friend. If I had been able to see my uncle for one more month, I would have dropped everything and ran to my opportunity.

"Gaetan and I have a lot of catching up to do." Her lips quivered, her voice becoming tighter. "He had no idea Thomas passed. When I told him, the look on his face broke my heart. I hope you do not mind if-"

"Of course," I said before she continued.

Madeline offered a closed-lipped smile. "This has been a difficult day," she said. "I think the manager is going to sage the whole theater after the show."

"Sage?"

"For bad energy," Madeline said with a shrug.

"How is Cathedra?"

"Awake. That is all I heard. She will not appear back on stage today, but she did say she wanted to perform tomorrow night."

"Is she well enough?"

"She seems to think so, but I suppose it's up to the managers discretion."Madeline paused and fidgeted with her ring for a moment. "Erik, I also wanted to tell you-"

Her words were cut off by the orchestra playing the first notes of a symphony as the second act began. I hurried to my feet and sat in the chair beside her, my sulking left behind as the music started.

"We will speak later," she said against the shell of my ear. Her hand grazed gently over mine, a comforting, motherly gesture I had seen her offer to a dozen other people in the theater. One small gesture made me feel no different from anyone else in the audience.

I nodded and sat back. I could wait a month for Gaetan Giry to leave. Of course, I did not have much of a choice in the matter.

oooOooo

It was a dreadfully slow month of Gaetan Giry visiting with Madeline. She limited herself to seeing me every other day, then every three days halfway through the commander's leave.

Left to my own devices-and knowing Madeline was preoccupied outside of the theater, I spent many days across the lake exploring the intricate hallways and a series of natural tunnels that led to underground springs, maddening dead ends, and meandering, roughed-out passages that narrowed or were filled with spiderwebs.

Countless hours were spent crawling through tunnels until I returned to my side of the lake sweaty, covered in dirt and many scrapes, and also quite exhausted. I enjoyed myself immensely unless rats were involved in which case I could not run fast enough in the opposite direction.

There was rarely anyone around when I set off exploring the tunnels, and the further I ventured, the more I came to realize how easy it would be to get completely turned around for several hours if not days. I realized if I dropped my lantern and shattered my only source of light it would be impossible for me to find my way back.

It was quite the sobering thought.

By the second week-along with my newfound fear of the complete darkness- I tired of becoming tangled in spider webs and having rats scurry past my feet and decided to stay closer to the theater where seamstresses and costume designers worked tirelessly to keep everyone's costumes and wigs in good repair. I braved my way through dark halls and navigated through shadows, learning which doors were left unlocked and rooms never used should I need a quick escape.

Cathedra returned to the stage, which surprised me, and I heard every single one of her performances. Her cousin, whom Madeline had pointed out to me, remained in Paris and became her understudy. There was quite a buzz surrounding Carlotta, but I couldn't tell if it was good or bad since the soprano's younger cousin seemed to materialize out of nowhere and end the chatter.

Best of all, through my constant to the other side of the lake and walks through the servants' halls I also learned more about the female body than I was prepared to know.

Dancers spent the majority of their time in various stages of undress, and it appeared I could not walk more than thirty steps without stumbling upon someone without all of their appropriate clothing.

I learned there was no such thing as modesty within a troupe of dancers, which for a young man of my age was both strange and delightful. I did not set out in search of naked women. In fact, the first instance in which I peered through a doorway and saw two women casually strolling with only their ballet skirts on I jumped back and turned away, embarrassed from my findings.

A week later, there seemed to be more women walking around without clothes than ones who were dressed, and eventually it became so commonplace that I found it unusual to spot anyone fully dressed. Being a proper gentleman, however, I made certain I stayed clear of the dressing rooms as I had no desire to leer at women as they changed in private. That was an activity Joseph Buquet seemed to enjoy and I wanted nothing to do with him.

Other than dancers running around, there were also many amorous couples clinging to the shadows, which sometimes curtailed my trips around the servants' halls. Twice in the same day I stumbled upon the same two individuals making the most of what they most likely thought was an empty hall as I traveled toward my second favorite location in the whole theater: the kitchen and pantry. The lovers were both alarmingly aggressive in tearing off each other's clothes and so loud that at first I thought someone was injured. I had the unfortunate timing to catch them both on may to the kitchen and back with my spoils. Their encounters seemed outright exhausting and as I managed to sneak past them, I thought of all the food I could have been eating if I had waited another fifteen minutes to leave the kitchen.

As Madeline had said, no one seemed to notice a bit of food missing. I took advantage of late night excursions and often lifted a few pastries as well as whatever else I found available. A handful of times I was bold enough to travel alone to the rooftop late at night and sat beneath Apollo with buttered bread and some hard cheese. Once there was a light drizzle, but I stayed and watched a storm approach until the wind picked up and the lightning became dangerously close.

When it was cool and pleasant late at night, I stayed until the quiet streets of Paris became alive with the sound of birdsong before I trotted down the stairs to the main floor, grabbed my lantern, and headed back into the cellar to bathe and dress for bed.

It was a perfect time of year where the line between summer and autumn blurred. I was alone for most of the time, and yet I did not feel truly lonely. I overheard plenty of conversations throughout the theater and learned about what head of state was planning to attend an upcoming performance, rumors about chorus girls in bed with patrons, and the general dislike of Joseph Buquet by most everyone in the theater. Carlotta was preparing for her role as understudy for Cathedra, and the younger cousin was expected to attend rehearsals before taking the stage during a matinee.

Slow as the month passed, I had plenty on my mind and at my disposal. Above all else, I was grateful to be safe for the first time in my life. Beneath the opera house, no one was waiting to beat me for the sake of doing me harm. I ate regular, fresh food, had a bed and warm blankets, and a collection of clothing fit for a noble. I bathed on a regular basis with a pleasant smelling soap, my hair was no longer falling out in clumps, and the only bruises were the ones I gained from bumping my leg on the table or when I hit my shin on the rocks when wading across to the opposite side of the lake.

The nightmares lessened, the thoughts of my father and mother did not grip me so tightly, and for the most part I attempted to stay busy with music and the labyrinth of the Opera House.

As the anniversary of my uncle's death grew near, I did everything within my power to avoid thinking of him, and for the most part I was successful.

For the most part.


	25. Alone in Mourning

Chapter 25

Despite what people expected after the special performance, The Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo did not retire from the stage after that night. Two days later, she was back on the stage for _Fidelio_ , and it was truly like she had never collapsed before the theater patrons.

I secretly attended all twenty-six of her performances. Four times I saw her perform on the stage as I sat in Box Five; the other twenty-two were from beneath the stage as the de Chagnys had returned to claim their coveted spot. Each time she sang, there was so much passion in her voice I was moved to tears. She knew it was the end of her career and she wished to leave her audiences stunned.

After each curtain call, I knew it was only a matter of time before her cousin Carlotta Vicari took her place. It saddened me greatly, especially since Cathedra still sat in the chapel and spoke frequently to me, her mute ghost. I wrote a final note to her, but to be frank I was too afraid to leave it for Senora di Carlo. I worried that the note would cause the singer undue stress-or worse yet that Madeline would catch wind of what I had done and confront me. The buzz regarding the notorious opera ghost had died down considerably and I had no desire to stir up trouble. Someone else was doing a damned fine job of that, it seemed.

Cathedra's cousin was young-only a few years older than me-and had been training for the stage since she was six years old, a detail she made certain everyone knew. While Cathedra had most certainly earned her place as well as more than a little arrogance with her years of performing, Carlotta walked into the theater expecting to be waited on hand and foot. She had Cathedra's confidence without the ability to back it up.

Or at least that was what the rest of the theater's performers, dressers, seamstresses, kitchen staff, ballet girls, stagehands, set designers, and manager said under their collective breaths when the new diva trounced across the stage.

Even Madeline seemed somewhat annoyed with the new addition, but she voiced her disdain politely-at least compared to others.

"She is a cow," Madeline said through her teeth one morning as she came to bring me food.

From all of the conversations I overheard, that was the nicest thing anyone had said about Signora Vicari. I chuckled to myself every time I pictured a cow singing on the stage.

Carlotta was the furthest thing from a cow, however. I saw her several times through the doorway where I had stopped and made eye contact with Cathedra, but unlike her cousin, Carlotta did not notice me. She was far too busy making certain everyone noticed her to spare me a glance.

Carlotta was built like a sculpture had painstakingly chiseled her from stone. She was tall for a woman with generous, round hips, a slim waist, and according to more than one stagehand, very well endowed. She had large, dark eyes, a slender nose, and very red lips, red as rose petals. What she possessed in beauty and grace on the stage she lacked in everything else. If nothing else, Carlotta played the role of diva off the stage and never broke character. When she wasn't singing, she was yelling at someone for doing their job improperly.

With the slow transition from Cathedra to Carlotta imminent, I spent as much time as possible on the theater side of the lake where I felt as though I were part of the Opera House. I overheard tantalizing gossip and learned when the halls and theater were crowded and when not a soul stirred.

When there was no one else around I walked the flies above the stage, rifled through the costumes and wigs, and stole strings for my violin. To make up for the strings, I also repaired a door on a piece of scenery that was in danger of falling off its hinges. I felt a sense of belonging, even if no one knew I was there.

My contentment with this new daily routine was short-lived, however. I could feel the turbulence deep inside, the aching in my heart biding its time to be noticed once more. It was like taking medication for pain; for the moment the discomfort was dulled, but once the effects wore off, the agony would return.

By late October, with days before Gaetan Giry was set to leave, I felt myself on the verge of panic. No matter what I did, the feeling would not release its tight grip.

To compound my misery, a storm settled over Paris and refused to budge. It thundered and poured for three days straight and the smell of rain reached across the lake during the middle of the day, undoubtedly from the doors to the alley being left open.

The earthy smell seemed to settle inside of me, and despite my attempts at focusing on music, I could not shake the image of digging a grave. When I closed my hands into fists, I swore I felt the mud beneath my nails and the blisters on my fingers. My hands trembled so severely I could not hold the bow when I tried to play the violin.

For a solid week sleep became impossible, food lost its taste, and I was restless. Madeline spent the last week exclusively with the commander when she was not in rehearsals or on stage. Of course she had given me plenty of notice, and although I had no desire to be alone,I had nodded through everything she told me without listening to a single word. More than anything, I did not wish to be a burden on her.

Without Madeline's company, solitude became unbearable, and I struggled to find my uncle's guiding voice through the static in my thoughts. I was too exhausted to swim across the lake and feared without any rest I would either stumble on the wet rocks and injure myself or drown, which meant my days were spent exclusively in the cavern.

The smell of rain hung in the air. I closed my eyes, curled up in bed beneath my blankets, and felt the chilled breeze from across the lake against my hair and the back of my neck. I thought of how it had rained the day my uncle had passed, how I sat with him in the tent and helplessly watched the life leave his yellowed eyes. No amount of begging or praying changed his fate or mine. No amount of tears shed brought him back. No amount of time passing lessened the pain I felt.

I realized I was forgetting the details of the man who was so dear to me. I could no longer recall how his hand on top of my head felt, or the warmth of his shoulder against mine as we sat and ate supper around a fire. The sound of his voice had faded and the words I thought I would remember for the rest of my life were jumbled in my head. He was fading from me, even in memory, and the realization tightened my chest.

"I miss you," I said as I choked back a desperate sob. "My God, how I miss you."

I would have given anything to hear his voice one more time, to hear him tell me I was a remarkable musician and a fine young man. One more word of praise and I would have finally believed he spoke the truth.

Alone in the dark, I allowed myself a moment to break down and feel the heaviness of my loss. I agonized over his final moments and wondered if he had heard me say I loved him. I wished I had offered him my blanket to keep him warm, that I had held his hand or kissed his forehead in an attempt to comfort him. More than anything, I still wished that I had closed my eyes and never opened them again.

"I love you, Uncle," I forced myself to say aloud. "I loved you more than my father. More than I have ever loved anyone else. More than I will ever love anyone."

I sobbed so hard I could not catch my breath. The aching in my heart writhed, and I felt both empty with loss and yet overflowing with emotion. The day he had left me, there had been no time to fully process my grief as I went from sobbing over his body to digging his grave and immediately being placed in irons once I covered his body with dirt and stones. Numbness drew me in and I did not shed a single tear for him, not in the ten months I spent on display from city to city.

"Erik."

The sound of my name startled me. I sucked in a wild breath and my eyes popped open, my arms flailing beneath the sheets. Foolishly I had hoped to find my uncle standing over me, even if he was nothing more than a ghost paying a brief visit.

It took me a long moment to register who had called to me as I was in such a haze that did not recognize Madeline's voice, but the moment I saw her face in the lantern light, I furiously attempted to wipe away my tears.

"A moment," I said, my voice so tight I barely realized the words were mine. I started to sit up and move away from her, desperate to compose myself.

Ignoring my words, she sat beside me and motioned for me to lay down again. The lantern light glowed around her, a soft halo befitting an angel.

"No," I said weakly as I shook my head.

Madeline placed her hand on my pillow and lightly tapped her fingers. Her features were calm and relaxed, her movements slow and patient. I knew she would not relent until I did as she requested. At last I gave in and nodded. Tears slid down my cheeks and I sucked in a ragged breath before I laid down once more and buried my face in my pillow. Every bit of tension welled up within me begged to be released, but still I clung to agony, forced it down and willed my emotion to stay put. If I could focus on each breath I took, eventually I would settle down and stop making a fool of myself in front of her.

Without a sound, Madeline placed her hand on my head and smoothed my tangled hair. I shivered at her touch, at the memory of my uncle elicited by one stroke of her hand. She pulled the blanket up to my shoulders and gently ran her hand up and down my back, not once telling me to settle down.

Nothing would have stopped the raw flood of emotion. I felt cut open, a hemorrhage of grief flooding from a wound that had needed to open. I inched closer to her, felt her knee against the middle of my back, and imagined myself as a son seeking comfort from his mother.

I cried until there was nothing left, utterly howled with grief I had kept inside for so long I felt as though I had been poisoned. All the while, Madeline remained beside me, the comfort of her simple presence unlike anything I had experienced before. No one had been this gentle with me, not even my uncle. His presence was firm but kind while Madeline was every bit a doting mother.

"My uncle," I said once the lump in my throat subsided. I felt I owed her an explanation for my emotional state, but my breath was sliced by hiccups every few seconds, which made it difficult to continue. Frustrated, I turned away, feeling the heat of rage threaten.

"I know," she answered quietly. The storm inside me stilled. "I know."

I took a deep breath and nodded.

"It's cold tonight," she said. Those were the last words I remember hearing her say. The backs of her soft fingers stroked the right side of my face and the shell of my ear. I took a deep breath, but my nose was running and I couldn't smell her perfume. I realized I could no longer smell the rain or the heady scent of dirt, either.

My eyes fluttered shut to her touch, and for the first time in a week I fell into peaceful sleep, my racing heart and mind settled by the rhythmic motion of her hand sweeping up and down my spine and through my hair.

As my mind wandered, I wanted to tell Madeline I loved her, loved her more than my own distant mother. I wanted to tell her that I was incorrect in telling my uncle I would never love anyone else because I loved her just as much as I had loved him, but my lips quivered and my tongue felt thick. If I spoke a single word, I knew I would not be able to finish my thought. Emotion had hit me much harder than I anticipated. It was worse than a fist to the gut.

Despite my exhaustion, I forced my eyes open one last time, looked over my shoulder, and found Madeline smiling back at me. She nodded once, silent reassurance that I could close my eyes.

I had no idea how long she stayed with me. When I woke again Madeline was gone. In her place was a handful of candies and a vase of flowers on the bedside table.

We never spoke of that moment. After a while, I was almost certain it had been nothing more than a dream.


	26. Angel or Ghost

Chapter 26

The Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo ended her long-time reign as principal soprano two days before _Fidelio_ was supposed to close.

Her leave was abrupt and jarring to the theater as a whole as she seemed to be at the very pinnacle of her career and no one thought her health would decline as it did.

The morning of what was to be her final performance was spent in the chapel at an earlier hour than anyone would have expected, and I happened to stumble upon her purely by coincidence.

It was four in the morning when I heard her whispering a prayer inside the chapel, and the urgency in her voice made me hasten my pace. I had overheard her prayers many times, but this was different.

Given that the halls were easy to navigate now that I knew my way around, I no longer brought a lantern with me as I feared the light would draw attention if someone else happened to be skulking about in the middle of the night. As I neared the chapel I noticed the glow of candlelight dancing in the hall, a sharp, triangular shape of light setting the stone ceiling aglow along with a slit of light on the opposite side of the hall.

I abruptly stopped about ten paces from the servant's entrance once I realized the door was ajar and I could not pass without potentially being seen.

There were others paths I could take that would lead me back into the cellars, I knew. I had walked most of the tunnels at one time or another given the amount of free time I had at my disposal, but rather than turn around, I stopped and pressed my palm to the cool stone wall and held my breath as I took another careful step forward, then another.

I heard Cathedra's muffled weeping along with her whispered prayers, and against my better judgment, the sound of her despair drew me forward until I stood outside of the door. One more step and I would be able to peer inside the chapel.

"Please, I beg of you, come to me. Show me there is time still. Allow me one more chance to prove I am the most gifted singer in all of Europe."

Her prayer seemed a little selfish to me, but I was not one to believe in a higher power. Given how many nights I had begged to sleep with a full belly or a single night of resting without pain and constantly been denied, I had lost what little faith I had in any sort of deity. No one had listened to me. I wondered if God reserved himself for someone like Cathedra instead.

"I can hear you breathing," she continued.

My mouth dropped open as the words registered. I clamped my mouth shut, pursed my lips, and held my breath, unsure of what to do. Surely if Cathedra could hear me breathing she would hear me sprint down the hall. Unfortunately seconds turned into what felt like a lifetime without air, and I was forced to take a breath.

"You may step forward," Cathedra said.

My feet refused to move. The moment she saw my masked face, she would react either by screaming or fainting. I wanted neither.

"Are you mocking me?" she questioned, her voice tinged with anger.

"No," I said without thinking.

Dreadfully long silence followed my single word reply. I looked up at the drab stone ceiling still aglow with candlelight and racked my mind for some brilliant, poetic reply. _Fear not, gentle lady of the stage,_ I wanted to say, _for I am your loyal opera ghost._

But I was not her loyal ghost. I was a thirteen year old boy skulking through the early morning hours after a night of indulging in sweets and lying on the rooftop to view the stars.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

The honest answer was hunger, boredom, and terrible sleeping habits. Rather than answer, I reached for the door and started to close it, but Cathedra pushed it further open.

The threat of being discovered made me pull back. "Please do not look at me," I blurted out. My voice sounded different to my own ears, deeper and yet more childlike and desperate.

"Why not?" she calmly asked.

"I would rather not be seen."

She paused, perhaps considering my answer. "You wear a mask."

My lips parted. She knew precisely who I was without seeing me. "How...how did you know?"

Cathedra chuckled to herself. "I saw you. Or did you forget?"

"I could never forget."

"That was not my best performance."

"Last night was better," I agreed.

Cathedra grunted. "My beloved ghost is a critic, I see?"

"No, I...I…" Ashamed, I took a step back.

"Please do not leave," she said gently. "I did not intend my words to be harsh or mocking."

"Neither did I."

Cathedra stayed quiet for a long moment. I stared at the barrier between us and watched the candlelight flicker. I could picture her red hair and all, her fair skin with a warm, golden glow.

"When I did not see you again, I thought for sure you were part of my imagination. Then when I received your note I knew you were really there off stage. Why have you stayed away?"

I leaned against the wall and considered my words with care. "I did not intend to frighten or harm you. Please accept my sincerest apologies."

"You broke my fall," she mused.

I started to protest, but figured it did not matter if she thought I had caught her when she passed out in the chapel. If anything, Cathedra sounded comforted by my presence. After all of the time spent chained on display, I was glad to have someone else unafraid of me. The very notion made me smile inwardly.

"Do you have a name? Or shall I call you Opera Ghost?"

"I cannot give you my name, Senora, which I deeply regret."

"Your secret would be safe with me, I assure you." Again she gave the door a slight push and I stepped further back, retreating from the threat of being discovered.

"Your actions say differently."

I hoped she took my words as a gentle warning, but if she opened the door any further, I had every intention of bolting down the hall.

"My curiosity has gotten the best of me," she explained. "I will take two steps back."

She purposely dragged her feet against the stone flooring and counted her two steps. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her shadow on the wall behind me became smaller and sharper.

I heard the wooden bench scrape against the floor and knew she had taken a seat again. Her breath sounded more labored, hissing past her teeth. I fought the urge to ask if she was feeling unwell as that seemed rather uncouth. Hearing her raspy breaths, it made me wish I had been uncouth enough to ask my uncle such a question.

"May I ask you a question?" she asked at last.

Now that Cathedra was at a distance, I felt myself relax in her presence. "You may."

"Are you a robber?"

Sweets and violin strings aside, I shook my head. "I am not."

"Are you a molester of women?"

Heat rose to my cheeks and the back of my neck. "Not in the least," I answered without a moment of hesitation.

She chuckled at my response. "I suppose considering the length of our pleasant conversation you are no murder either?"

My heart stuttered. She spoke lightly-indeed with a hint of flirtation that at the age of thirteen I did not understand-but still I hesitated to answer.

"I will do no harm to you, Senora. I am your obedient servant." Despite standing behind the door, I offered an awkward bow.

"Why do you wear a white mask?"

"I do not want others to see my face." I attempted to keep all emotion out of my voice despite my sudden discomfort.

"What is wrong with your face?"

I stared at my boots and envisioned my once filthy, callused feet partially hidden beneath wet straw. I thought of the crowds and the stench of too many people gathered in a tent.

"It is injured," I answered at last. My voice to my own ears sounded wounded. Head bowed, I silently begged her not to ask anything further.

"Very well then. I do not want to know if you are truly an angel or a ghost," she said. "I rather enjoy the intrigue. However, I will call you my ghost, my shy I cannot have your name, then I will give you one."

"As you wish," I replied. "Since you have asked several questions of me, may I ask you something, Senora di Carlo?"

She made a noise, a sound I likened to the sigh I made when chocolate melted in my mouth. "By all means, my beloved."

Again I felt heat rise up my neck and to my face at her flattering term of endearment. Her words made me forget what I wished to ask her.

"I...I, um…"

Her laughter was soft and musical, lacking even the slightest hint of mockery. I smiled, imagining the soprano with her head tipped back and her hand resting against her jiggling breast. This time I made myself blush with unchaste thoughts.

"Would you call me Cathedra, my sweet ghost?" she asked.

"I would."

"Then tell me, what is your question?"

I had many questions for her, many different inquiries about the stage, her career, what her apartments were like across the street from the Opera House, and if she liked coffee. The last seemed like the most foolish. Being a foolish boy, that was what I asked.

"Is this a trick?" she queried. Her voice rang with amusement.

"No, it is not."

"I prefer tea. Do you like coffee?"

"No." I grinned to myself, finding the small talk at a safe distance pleasant. My shoulders relaxed, my heartbeat more slow and steady. I reached into my trouser pocket and felt the note I had written to her beneath my fingers. I wanted to slide it beneath the door and sprint away, but I enjoyed her unseen company far too much.

"Then that makes us perfect companions, a soprano and her lovely spirit."

I wasn't sure if I blushed again or if there was fire now permanently on my cheeks.

"Cathedra." I liked the way her name sounded as it rolled off my tongue. It was a beautiful name, one I thought suited her.

"Yes, my spirit?"

"You were not afraid when you saw me?" I asked.

I heard the rustle of skirts and a long, deep breath drawn in and released. "There was nothing to be afraid of," she answered. "You were simply another member of the audience, one who appeared most attentive and appreciative of the arts. I would much rather have you in the first row than some stuffy old man who cannot be bothered to sit through a performance without falling asleep on his wife's shoulder."

I snorted. Cathedra giggled.

"You were entranced by the performance," she continued. "I could see it in your eyes and the smile on your face. All of the rose bouquets and chocolates fail to express what you did that night. I thank you, my gentle spirit, you truly reminded me what it is like to be appreciated.."

Her words summoned an unexpected lump in my throat. I took another step closer to the door, shy as a fawn inching from the safety of a tree into the open. I paused before she could see me and swallowed hard.

She did not fear me. In fact, she did not think of me as any different from other faces in the crowd. No, that was not entirely true. She thought I belonged in the front row. The concept of being accepted would have been wholly foreign for me, if not for Madeline and my uncle.

"My dear," Cathedra said softly. "There is someone coming. You should make haste if you do not wish to be seen."

My heart stuttered. Without a second of hesitation, I bolted past the chapel door, dashed down the hall, and rounded the corner. I did not stop until I reached the cellar door, and only then did I pause to grab my lantern. Only then did I realize the note I had kept in my pocket for several days was no longer with me.


	27. Disarray

Chapter 27

"You're still sleeping?"

I had heard Madeline enter the cavern, but made no attempt to appear the least bit awake or coherent. Belly-down in bed with the covers up to my chin, I was well aware that she was going to stay and make as much noise as possible until I joined her for breakfast.

"What time is it?" I groaned.

"Almost noon," she huffed.

I would like to think all of the time spent underground gave me good reason to sleep at odd hours, however, for the last month I had spent most of my time elsewhere in the theater and saw a surprising amount of daylight thanks to doors left open for deliveries and a rooftop that was never occupied.

I rolled onto my side and stretched. I had fallen asleep some time after ten in the morning, which meant I had less than two hours of sleep.

"You are like a lazy tom cat," Madeline admonished.

I smiled, thinking of how I had come across a lazy orange tom cat with chewed up ears and more than a few battle scars, relaxing in the sunlight a few days previous. The cat had sauntered over, sniffed me, and gave me a head butt to the shin before he rubbed his body against me and purred. I had envied his sunbathing, and if the delivery carts hadn't bumbled noisily down the alley, I probably would have joined my new friend for a while and stretched out in the sun.

"Am I needed?" I asked. I yawned, sat up, and found Madeline standing over me. "Did the Emperor of France send for me?"

"No, I did," Madeline replied.

"Even better." I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and gave a bow, which earned me a light slap against my upper arm followed by a soft chuckle.

Once I stood and met her eye, I thought of the last time I had seen Madeline, how she had sat with me until I cried myself to sleep. I wondered if she thought of the same thing, but it didn't show on her face.

Madeline tucked her hair behind her ear, then grabbed me by the wrist. "Do you want to eat something or not?"

Madeline was unaware of my excursions, which meant she did not know I had stuffed myself like a calf about to go to slaughter. Since she had gone through the trouble of bringing me food, however, I obliged and asked for a moment of privacy to dress and take care of my very full bladder.

We ate a small meal, Madeline brought me more soap to launder my own clothing as well as some other items she had bought while out at the festival.

"He is gone then? What was his name? Giry?" I asked, making every attempt to sound disappointed on her behalf.

She nodded sullenly. "Yes, Gaetan Giry left two days ago. I apologize for not stopping by to see you yesterday, but I would not have been good company."

I nodded, silently wondering if I had ever provided decent company to anyone at all. The last time I had seen Madeline I had most certainly had been intolerable.

"I've kept busy," I said with a shrug.

"I am sure you have."

Madeline eyed me as she straightened her cup of coffee and scraped dirt off the table with her fingernail. I looked away from her, my gaze trained on a knot in the wood. My heart thudded and I was certain someone had found my note in the servants' hall. Rumors were spreading and undoubtedly every chorus girl shrieked that the ghost was back and ready to swallow children whole.

"I am very tempted to start cleaning up after you," Madeline said at last. She arched a brow and took a sip of her coffee before surveying the cavern. "But I will not meddle in your space."

I followed her eyes and grimaced at the disarray of boxes, scattered music, and an unfortunate amount of clothing and a towel or two I had not bothered to pick up from the ground.

Pigs in styes lived better than I did. Rats in holes were more tidy than me. I looked around as though noticing my surroundings for the very first time.

"I see," I mumbled. I started to think of an excuse for my disorganized lakeside abode, but Madeline folded her arms and gave me a stern look. It did not matter if I had never had a proper bed of my own; I needed to make mine, pick up all of my clothes, sort and stack all of the boxes, and keep my music organized.

"I knew you would."

Madeline relaxed and gave me a gentle nod of approval. She placed her hand over mine and smiled. "I must be off to rehearsals. Carlotta Vicari is scheduled for the matinee on Saturday. I do hope she's ready." Madeline gave a dramatic, world-weary sigh and shook her head.

"How is she?" I asked. "Compared to Cathedra?"

"No one compares to Cathedra." Her tone was somewhat mocking, but I didn't argue. In my mind, no one did compare to Cathedra, both on and off the stage. I was her ghost and I felt as though she was my soprano.

"Yes, but...is she any good?"

"She is very good," Madeline admitted. "But she is not as good as she thinks."

That had been my opinion as well. I hoped for Carlotta that she would eventually fill the shoes she thought fit her already.

Without asking, Madeline began picking up sheets of paper and neatly gathering them into a pile, which she handed to me before taking another long look around. I had never felt more like a child admonished for my untidy room than I did in that moment.

To soften the blow, Madeline squeezed my shoulder. "I will see you after the show tonight."

I nodded. I intended to be there under the stage, listening to every sweet note Cathedra sang. I feared it would be one of her last.

oooOooo

I lost interest in cleaning up my disastrous apartments about eight minutes after Madeline left. Every article of clothing was removed from the floor or the backs of chairs and neatly folded and returned to the dresser if it was clean or placed into a basket for washing later. Once that dreadful task was finished and I realized the mess seemed overwhelming still, I felt quite discouraged.

With no desire to complete the task at hand, I dragged myself around the open space and groaned before I flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. Really, I saw no point in continuing with stacking the boxes since I would sort through them again in a day or two. What did it matter? It didn't.

My heart began to race as I thought of my note to Cathedra lost somewhere between the chapel and the stairs leading to the cellar. Even though I wasn't sure of the distance, I felt as though there were miles between the chapel and the cellar stairs. Being that it was the middle of the day, there was no way for me to retrace my steps without being seen as the cleaning staff, seamstresses, and an assortment of other people employed within the theater would be bustling about.

Recovering the note was well out of my control, but that did nothing to ease my anxiety. I sat upright and walked back to the table where my violin sat neglected in a shrine of music I had not yet played.

It had been a matter of days since I had last played. I thought of bringing it with me the next time I walked to the chapel and asking if Cathedra would like to hear me play, but I did not want to be presumptuous. There was also the matter of drawing attention to myself.

I thumbed through the sheets, realizing there was really no order to the way I had piled the different compositions. In the back of my mind I could see both my uncle and Madeline standing side by side, both with their arms crossed as they shook their heads at me.

Vivaldi's concertos became my source of amusement for the better part of the afternoon, mostly because there was a box of his music labeled one hundred and nine to one hundred and forty-three. Playing his exuberant, almost playful music lightened my mood. When I closed my eyes, I could see my uncle sitting in the tall grass, the sun shining down on him, a smile on his lips as he nodded and encouraged me to continue playing.

Seeing the tremendous body of work Vivaldi had created in his lifetime made me want to compose my own catalog of music. Perhaps I was no Verdi or Mozart, but at the worldly age of thirteen I was confident in my ability to write music worthy of being heard for centuries to come. I smiled at the thought, placed my violin carefully in the box, and sat at the table with a jar of ink and pen to write my first symphony.

I have no idea how long I sat staring at the mocking blank page, but it felt as though I had aged at least a year. The middle of my back and between my shoulder blades turned into painful knots and I stood, twisting and stretching until I worked out the worst of the kinks.

Mozart wrote twenty-two operas in his lifetime, which was not nearly as impressive as the forty Vivaldi wrote, but of course Mozart had written ten as a teenager. What had I written? Nothing. Not even my name across the top of the page.

I placed my hands on my hips and began to pace, frustrated that music did not flow through me with the ease of water through a stream. No, a stream was not ambitious enough. I wished to be a wide, roaring river alive with inspiration. I wanted to be swept away in sweet melodies, nearly drowned in my own measures.

But there was no forcing genius. There was no forcing a bumbling melody, either, I discovered. Notes refused to be plucked out of thin air.

"Why is this so difficult?" I muttered under my breath. Mozart began composing at the age of six, damn him, and here I was without a single note committed to a blank page. Twice his age, none of the talent.

 _You are not Mozart,_ I could hear my uncle say. _Do not compare yourself to him. Do not compare yourself to anyone, my son._

I snorted at the voice in my head. "I could be better than him," I whispered to the dark lake. If only the music would cooperate.

I could imagine my uncle chuckling at my pompous words. He would have said I enjoyed the challenge and proving others wrong and he would have been correct. Music was in my veins, I was sure of it, but today I could not bleed out a melody.

"I fear I have become anemic, uncle," I said as I walked back to the table and straddled the bench.

 _Perhaps you should focus all of your dramatic energy into an opera, my son._

I smiled to myself. Even if he was not beside me, I could imagine what my uncle would say as I returned to the table and sat with my chin resting on my palm.

Eventually I abandoned my pursuit of composing an overture and dressed for the performance. For the first time in over a month I looked at my reflection in the mirror and took a step back, barely recognizing myself.

I ran my fingers along the brocade waistcoat and admired the detail of the brass buttons. I looked up at my reflection and absently combed my fingers through my hair and saw the bald patches were barely noticeable.

If there were three things I had always recognized with my own appearance, it was the scars on my face, the patches of sparse hair on my head, and the overall gauntness of my frame. Only the scars remained, and that was hidden beneath my mask. I was thin, but not skeletal. My hair was thin as well, but the handfuls pulled out were no longer evident.

Cathedra would not be so taken aback by the sight of me. She already knew of the mask, which meant she would not be startled by my covered face. I could approach her, I told myself. I could walk into the chapel, take a seat in the alcove by the stained glass windows, and meet with her face-to-face.

"Senora di Carlo," I practiced. I bowed to my reflection. "I am your ghost."

I shook my head. No, I did not like the sound of it.

"Senora di Carlo." Another bow, this time deeper than the first one. "I am your angel."

That attempt made me wince. I cleared my throat and squared my shoulders.

"Senora di Carlo." A third bow, followed by a long moment of silence. I extended my hand and forced a smile even though I felt absurd practicing what I would say. "My name is Erik. I am pleased to meet you."

I could picture Cathedra dressed for the stage as she sat in the chapel. I could see her accepting my hand graciously as she expressed how wonderful it was to see me in person, her living spirit, her beloved angel, her real-life…

I wasn't sure what to call myself. I admired her talent, which I supposed made me an admirer, although I assumed her husband would be less than pleased about his wife being in a secret meeting with an admirer.

"Your friend," I said. "Your friend Erik."

I looked away from my reflection. The words sounded so foreign to my ears that I almost regretted speaking them aloud. Perhaps she did not think of me as a friend. Doubt surfaced. I found myself taking a step back from the mirror, then another.

"Your obedient servant," I said, trying the words out for size.

Yes, that fit. I would serve her with praise, companionship, or simply silence if that was what the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo asked of me. I would meld into whatever form she wished.

I turned from the mirror, grabbed my pocket watch and lantern, and headed up the long stairway toward the main floor. I was not quite three sets of stairs up when I heard the door at the top open and slam shut.

"Damn it," I said under my breath as I turned around and headed back toward the fifth cellar.

"Erik?"

I froze. "Madeline? What are you doing down here?"

She appeared a moment later, dressed in her regular street clothes instead of her stage costume. "The performance is cancelled for tonight."

"Wh-why?"

Her expression darkened. "Cathedra is very ill."

I felt my blood run cold. "Did she fall?"

Madeline shook her head. "No, no, she has been talking nonsense for hours. The house manager is afraid to let her on the stage and unfortunately he does not feel confident about Carlotta performing yet. The last I heard, Cathedra was unable to speak a full sentence. She's resting comfortably in her apartments across the street."

I stood gaping at her in the darkness of the stairwell, my heart thudding madly and my mind racing.

Madeline shifted her weight. "Here," she said, holding out a folded piece of paper in her hand. "This was in the chapel."

My eyes widened. "I...I did not-"

"You do not need to come up with an excuse. Cathedra found your note and responded," Madeline said before I could finish. "She said this morning the ghost came to visit her and left a note. As soon a she was taken home, I went to the chapel and found this."

I was too ashamed to meet her eye or take the note.

"I took this before anyone else could find it." Madeline forced the paper into my hand and folded her arms over her chest.

"I dropped the note on accident," I mumbled. "I swear to you it was not intentional."

"Then you did speak to her this morning?"

"Early, before sunrise," I confessed. "I did not think anyone else would be around."

"Why were you-never mind, that is a question for another time," Madeline said with a sigh. "You were simply carrying a note around with you? In your trouser pocket?"

"Yes," I blurted out. "I wrote it days ago, but I had no intention of giving it to her. I thought it was…" I swallowed. "I thought it was comforting."

"Comforting to hold onto it?"

I nodded.

"You are very fond of her."

"I am. She was kind to me."

Madeline studied me a moment. "You were in the chapel with her?"

"No, I stayed in the hallway. She asked me to come in, but I did not want her to see me." I looked away. "I wanted to speak to her again. One last time." My throat tightened, and my heart felt heavy as a stone in my chest. I wanted more than to simply speak with Cathedra di Carlo; I wanted to see her face-to-face, to have her know me. "But I will not be able to speak to her again, will I?"

Madeline was quiet for a long moment.

"Erik, I will tell you honestly they do not know if she will live another week," Madeline said softly.

I bowed my head.

"Her husband has called for a priest. The theater is closed until the managers are satisfied with Carlotta's performance and think she is ready to take on the role."

"What about the matinee?"

Madeline shrugged. "No further shows announced, I'm afraid. Carlotta will perform after Cathedra has passed. Right now Carlotta is at her cousin's side, which is for the best."

No performances meant none of the other employees in the theater were paid. I held the lantern up a little higher and looked at Madeline. "What does this mean for you?" I asked.

She forced a smile. "We will see."

"Will you return to London?" I asked.

"I cannot afford a ticket to London," she answered.

"Will you stay in the Opera House?"

"I'm not sure."

It was the first time since I had known Madeline where she looked more like a helpless girl than a strong, determined mother figure. Even when her brother had been wounded and she rushed to be with family, she was still in control. As I studied her expression, I saw none of that. She looked defeated. She looked how I had felt for years.

Without a word, Madeline sank to the ground and sat hard on the steps where she cradled her head in her hands. I placed the lantern at my feet and joined her. For a long moment we sat in silence and listened to the distant drip of water. I did not know what to say and wasn't sure she wanted me to speak.

With the cold, damp stone wall against my left shoulder and Madeline against my right, I had an idea. Perhaps she could not afford a train ticket, but I knew someone who could.


	28. Stolen Treasure

Chapter 28

The Opera House bustled with activity following the announcement that Cathedra di Carlo was retiring. The managers had purposely called her departure a retirement and said that her years of divine entertainment on the Parisian stage have come to an outstanding conclusion. On the front page of the newspaper they had an illustration of Cathedra as well as the headline: May the voice of a true angel forever be remembered with fondness.

The announcement was intended for the newspaper, however, it seemed every delivery boy, stable hand, and rat catcher knew precisely what had happened to the soprano and rumors grew like brush fire. No one believed for a moment that Senora di Carlo had retired suddenly.

Despite the cancellation of shows, I saw very little of Madeline for almost a week. She did not elaborate on what kept her away, although I suspected it had mostly to do with the amount of people bustling through the halls which made it nearly impossible for her to slip into the cellar unnoticed during the day. She made it a habit of visiting me early in the morning, typically an hour after I returned to the cellar after a night spent wandering around.

"How is she?" I asked.

"No one has said."

No one seemed to know any of the details of Cathedra's health, but everyone had an opinion. I overheard dancers gossiping that Cathedra was inebriated during performances and her declining health was nothing more than the result of her drinking. Superstitious delivery drivers said the singer had made a deal with the devil and he had finally come to claim her.

For two days, I wandered through the halls out of sight and listened for a hint of information as to the true nature of Cathedra's condition. I stood shivering beneath the stage at dawn in hopes of one of the delivery drivers mentioning something, but there was no news.

With the theater layoff, there was a limited amount of people working in the Opera House. A skeleton crew, Madeline had called it, consisting of the house managers, the stable manager and his son, and two cooks who prepared hot meals twice a day for those who paid on a monthly basis rather than weekly for room and board.

Madeline had normally paid for her dormitory stay by the month, but after her brother's death and father's illness, she had started to send money home, which left her unable to pay a large sum at once.

"I should have enough to get me through this week," Madeline told me three days after Cathedra's unexpected leave from the theater. "And then I suppose if it comes down to it I can always take the next week's out of my savings." She paused and frowned. "I apologize for not bringing you more to eat, but there is limited food as it is."

"I have plenty stored away," I promised her. I had no intention of being a burden upon her.

The only bright side to the layoff was that Madeline had no rehearsals or shows, which meant she spent a good amount of time tucked into an armchair with a book on her lap or helping me break down the wooden crates and set them aside as kindling. Despite saying she would not tidy up my sty of a living space, she did in fact absently fold my clean clothes and tuck them neatly into my wardrobe while she sang along to a folk song I played on the violin.

"I have a few errands to run tomorrow, but I will see you tomorrow afternoon," she promised.

Once Madeline returned to the dormitory, I waited a full ten minutes before I slid on my boots and wrapped my cloak around me. I walked up the cellar stairs to the main floor and heard the clock chime midnight when I reached the hallway. Voices in the distance made me stay put behind the cellar door longer than I desired, but soon enough silence replaced the chatter and I padded into the hall.

With food scarce, I took a single apple from the pantry rather than my usual three or four. I ate one as I leisurely strolled down the hall, fingers skimming along the stones until I found the one protruding slightly further than the rest.

I looked both ways down the hallway, breath held as I waited for the sound of footsteps or voices signaling someone approached, but I was alone. For a long moment I stared at the loose brick before I set my lantern down, took a deep breath, crouched down, and worked it out of the wall.

The scrape of stone against stone sounded impossibly loud to my ears. Sweat dampened my brow and my heart pounded as I pulled the stone loose, placed it at my feet, and reached into the wall.

I immediately pulled my hand back and grunted in surprise when I felt something unexpectedly furry. My first guess was that a rat had died in the wall, which made me shiver. I took a step back and nearly tripped over my lantern.

Turning the light up, I peered into the small space and realized the furry object was what appeared to be a mink stole.

"Thank God," I muttered to myself as I moved it aside and found a small wooden box. The moment my fingers caressed the smooth, cool surface, I smiled inwardly. "Treasure," I whispered. Not from the Pirate Daae, but from an even greater scoundrel.

I placed the box lid on top of the brick and discovered not only banknotes stuffed inside, but several silver rings, a few coins, and two keys. I held up one of the rings and looked it over in the light briefly and thought of Amelie Batiste, my swan princess from one of the last nights I had been with my uncle.

Weeks had passed and I had not thought of her, but the rings reminded me of the jewelry belonging to her family that I had found in the possession of the gypsies.

The jewelry Buquet had stolen was of greater quality than what the Batiste family had owned, which was all the more reason for me to take it off of Buquet's greasy hands. I dropped it into my pocket, assuming whatever was in the box had been stolen by Buquet and that once he discovered the box had been tampered with he would find a new hiding place. This opportunity would not arise again.

Rather than take a handful of banknotes as I had originally planned, I removed every last item, save a single coin, which I thought was quite generous of me. Perhaps it was a bit spiteful on my part, but I left my apple core to rot inside the velvet lined box. I could only imagine the look of disgust on Buquet's face when he discovered his stolen funds missing.

Pockets full, I returned the box into the wall, fit the stone back into place, and lifted my lantern shoulder height. I returned to my lakeside home tired, content, and with a gift for Madeline to lessen the financial burden the layoff placed on her.

oOo

I made myself breakfast late in the afternoon, using several eggs I had taken from the kitchen earlier in the week and the last of my bread before it went stale. Madeline walked in and sniffed the air before she hung her cloak up on a coat rack I had fixed.

"I made enough for two people," I said over my shoulder as I scraped food onto two plates.

When Madeline did not reply, I turned to find her with one of the rings between her thumb and forefinger. "Where did you find this?" she questioned.

"In the hall," I answered. Perhaps not the whole truth, but not quite a lie, I told myself.

Madeline looked at the other rings I had left on the table. The banknotes were still tucked inside my cloak as I had not expected her quite so early.

"In the hall?" she asked.

I kept my gaze trained on the plates rather than her face as I placed our meals on the table and took a seat across from her. "Yes, in the hall," I answered. My voice sounded strange to my own ears as though my tone gave me away.

"When?"

"Last night."

"Last night?" She sounded surprised by my answer.

"I went to grab an apple from the pantry," I replied.

Madeline continued to study the ring. She grunted and reached for her coffee. "In the middle of the floor?"

I regretted fabricating a story, but now that she asked me specific questions, I could not turn back. "Near the wall," I replied."

Madeline placed the ring on the table and grabbed another one. "The first one belongs to Cathedra," she said. "The others I do not recognize." She squinted at the second one and looked inside the band. "No inscription or initials."

"Strange," I answered. I did not know what else to say.

"I would not be surprised if someone stole them from her amidst the chaos and ended up dropping them." She paused and looked me in the eye. "Actually, I find it very strange that someone took four rings and dropped them all in the same hallway."

My heart stuttered and I blinked at her. If anything, Madeline was not ignorant. "They were in the wall," I blurted out.

Madeline went silent for an agonizing moment. She lined the rings up in a row and looked them over one by one.

"Buquet must have taken them," she said at last. Her gaze returned to mine and she shook her head. "Stealing from the sick."

"That is not all." I stood and walked to the coat rack where I dug into my cloak pocket and brought a wad of francs to the table, which I set down in front of Madeline. Her eyes went wide when she looked at the sum Joseph Buquet had stolen.

"God have mercy," she said.

"Roughly a thousand francs."

"You took all of it?"

"I left a coin in the box."

Madeline's lips parted. "A coin? A single coin?"

Her reaction made me chuckle. "And an apple core." I paused. "And what I thought was a dead rat but was a mink stole."

Now it was her turn to laugh. "You cannot be serious."

Given that her mood seemed considerably lighter, I took my seat again and pulled my bread apart in order to slide my eggs inside. "Absolutely serious. When you told me the performances were on hold, I had every intention of taking some of the money Buquet stashed inside, but once I saw the rings." I shrugged. "I took all of it."

Madeline bit her bottom lip. "What do you intend to do with all of this?"

"Give it to you."

Her eye widened in horror. "I can't-"

"You must."

"No, Erik, it does not belong to you to give."

My jaw twitched at her words, my anger unexpectedly stoked. "Buquet stole it from someone, I stole it from him. As far as I am concerned, considering I have no idea who the funds belonged to originally, it is mine to do with as I please."

Madeline looked taken aback by my statement. "What about the rings?"

I thought a moment. "Place them in the chapel," I said.

"The chapel?"

I nodded. "I will write a note saying they were found by the opera ghost and that I wish to return them to Senora di Carlo. My gift to her."

After a long moment, Madeline finally agreed. "I suppose given Cathedra's fondness for this opera ghost it would be appropriate. And perhaps Buquet would be less inclined to steal from others if he thought a spirit was behind all of this."

"Perhaps, however, the banknotes I will not return," I said firmly. I had never been so bold in my life, but I was refused to back down. With the return of Cathedra's jewelry by a ghost, the rumors would flourish. I wanted nothing more than to hold the upper hand against Buquet.

"There is a thousand francs," Madeline offered.

"Yes, there is, and I will not place a single franc in the chapel during a layoff. Every person in the theater will claim the funds belong to them. If they are desperate enough, they are capable of harming one another for ten francs."

Madeline sighed and crossed her arms. "I believe you are correct, but I am not comfortable with taking money that is not mine."

I should have expected as much from Madeline, but her refusal still irritated me. I took a bite of my food and chewed in silence. "If you reconsider, you know where you may find it," I said.

Although she frowned at me, Madeline said nothing further. We ate in silence for a moment before I asked if she would mind retrieving the butter. She made a face, muttered under her breath, but walked the length of my apartments to bring the butter to the table. While her back was to me, I slid thirty francs from the wad of banknotes and tucked it into her bag by her seat.

"Butter," Madeline announced. She looked at me and sighed. "For which you have no bread left."

She sat with a huff and changed the subject to something I had no desire to discuss: Captain Gaetan Giry.

"He sent me a letter from port," she said proudly. "And the next time he visits, he promised me a bottle of exotic perfume."

"Why would any woman in France need exotic perfume?" I asked irritably.

Madeline either didn't notice my tone or decided to ignore me. "I find it very romantic. I cannot wait until he returns next month."

"Next month?" I gasped.

I had assumed he would be out to sea for six months, perhaps a year, perhaps washed up on a deserted island somewhere far away where he would live out the rest of his days eating fish and seaweed while he spritzed exotic perfume on his sun burned flesh.

Madeline nodded. "For the holidays. He will visit for two weeks and then…"

She gave a long and rather dramatic pause. Given my limited social interactions with others, I did not realize her drawn out silence was a cue for me to ask her what would happen next.

"Then I hope he will ask for my hand," Madeline finished. She gave me a sideways look and shook her head.

I had no reaction to her words other than a shrug.

"You have nothing to say?"

Nothing nice, I considered telling her, but already she seemed somewhat annoyed with me and I decided not to press further.

"What would you have me say?" I asked, feigning innocence.

Madeline grunted. "Nothing." Her bottom lip jutted out and she crossed her arms. "Are you going to write your opera ghost note for Cathedra?"

"Now?" I questioned.

She shrugged as though to mock me. "I will take it up with me for your convenience." She eyed the unused butter on the table between us.

"That will not be necessary. I will deliver it tonight."

Madeline's eyes narrowed. "What if Buquet is out prowling the halls?"

It was my turn to shrug again. "Let him prowl. I am not afraid of him," I said.


	29. Exhilarating and Death-Defying

Chapter 29

The days shortened and the skies were overcast, which dampened my already sullen mood. Autumn was slowly losing its yearly battle to winter, and I spent less time on the roof as the winds cut through me.

As promised, I left a note and Cathedra's rings in the chapel, which Madeline told me a maid discovered and considered a blessing on the Opera House. The rings were retrieved by Cathedra's husband and I considered that the end of it. I couldn't decide if I felt relief or mourned the lackluster conclusion of my path crossing with the Incomparable Cathedra di Carlo.

"She is doing well," Madeline offered as consolation. "Obviously not to an extent where she is able to perform, but I have heard she is comfortable."

Every time Madeline paid me a visit I managed to stuff a few banknotes either into her cloak or the bag she carried, and although she never said anything outright, I knew she was able to pay her room and board at the Opera House, purchase wool gloves and new socks, and maintain the lifestyle she was accustomed to living. She brought me sweets and made certain the younger dancers from less well-off families had at least one meal a day during the layoff.

I knew some of her activities because I had become much more bold after I had taken Buquet's stolen funds. Although I was not proud of myself, I managed to take something much more valuable than a thousand francs and some rings: a set of keys-from none other than that louse Buquet.

He was blind drunk, of course, and staggered through the back halls with a bottle in one fist and his free hand keeping him propped up as he whistled to himself. He had no idea I stayed a dozen paces behind him, calculating each step of mine with his loud, shuffling movements.

"Wh-what's this?" he loudly asked himself once he fit his key into the lock and swung open a door at the start of the hall where the kitchen and pantry was located.

I rolled my eyes at his question and considered answering him as he was far too inebriated to do more than cry out if he turned and found me standing behind him, but I held my tongue.

The door was already unlocked, however, in my observation I had realized that Buquet was not smart enough to try pushing the door open first; when he was drunk, he pulled out his keys and often left them in the door, then doubled back for them later.

There was a store of liquor kept locked, which is where he was most likely headed. The keys he left in the door, which he didn't notice due to a shiny bronze coin glinting in the meager light-one that I had left for him an hour earlier in hopes he would leave his keys behind.

He fell to his knees, undoubtedly due to his lack of balance, and crawled toward the centime.

"Ah, hello there, Napoleon," he said with a dark laugh. The bottle rolled away from him, he cursed, and I gently removed the keys from the lock, held them tight in my fist, and padded lightly down the hall and around a corner. I looked back once I was safely out of sight and saw him flat on his stomach, evidently passed out cold with the neck of the bottle dangling from his fat lips.

There were six keys in total; one that unlocked the stable door, one to the theater, which was never locked and seemed somewhat useless, and one that opened nearly every door from the dormitories to the dressing rooms. The other three didn't seem to unlock anything at all within the theater, but I kept them nonetheless to try when I roamed the halls another night. I hoped at least one would fit the locks on the opposite side of the lake and fully intended to bring the heavy iron key ring with me one night to test them.

With the keys to the theater, I steeled my nerves and ventured outside to the streets of Paris. Months had passed since the unfortunate incident where I had been locked out in the rain, and I felt more secure with a set of keys to gain entrance through the stables.

Madeline had told me she planned to walk to the park with some of the other dancers, so I knew she would be out for the evening instead of visiting me. I dressed sensibly warm-or so I thought. Within a few streets the two pairs of woolen socks I wore not only made my boots uncomfortably tight for my growing feet but were far too warm as well, however, my thin cloak did nothing to shield me from the wind.

Still I trudged on, my scarf wrapped nearly around my head, and I dared to pull back my hood for a better look at my surroundings.

The mask I had taken for the night covered my whole face. It was dark in color, a sort of charcoal gray that hid my features and made it appear as though the hood was well over my eyes in low light.

I had no particular destination in mind given that I had not been on the streets to explore. At first I scurried along, but my actions drew attention from far too many people, so I slowed my pace and attempted to fall into step with larger groups of people walking in the same direction.

There were several musicians playing beneath street lamps. One was a duo of a man singing while another gentleman played a violin. People passing by dropped change into the violin case despite neither the singer or the musician being particularly good.

Eventually I found myself drawn toward a tavern nestled within a group of storefronts closed for the day. Music blared every few moments as the doors opened briefly, then closed and muffled the sound. The crowd around me thinned, and soon I found myself alone on the curb no more than twenty paces from the entrance.

Across the street two young men were in a heated argument egged on by a half dozen other boys keeping the confrontation at a steady simmer of words and the occasional shove. I watched them from the corner of my eye while my main focus remained on the tavern door and the music inside.

The wind picked up and pushed my hood further back, the sting from the cold sharp enough to make my eyes water. I inhaled through my nose and turned away, shivering violently as tears streamed down my face and became trapped between my mask and flesh. The sensation was not only uncomfortable, but I had no way of clearing my vision with the mask in place.

Another strong gust of wind pushed at my back and I stumbled forward before I realized it wasn't the wind but someone brushing past me. I blinked several times until I could see once again and found myself facing the growing group of men and several women across the street.

"Both of you walk away at once!" a woman yelled. "Bernard, Pierre, go!"

"He started it!" one of the men yelled.

"Ciampa will finish it if he finds out. Do you really want to go from a two week layoff to a suspension? God forbid either of you lose another day of employment over a foolish argument."

The crowd seemed to take a collective step back. I froze where I stood and blinked several more times at the mention of the theater manager's name and the woman who had rushed in to break up a fight before it started. Out of thousands of people on the streets of Paris, I stood yards away from Madeline.

"Go, all of you," she ordered.

Her words were met with grumbles but no outright protests, and the group of people shuffled off in two different directions.

Madeline remained across the street with her back to me. She had one hand on her hip and the other holding her cloak tight around her body. I watched her for a moment, unsure of whether or not she had spotted me in the foray.

I took a step away from where she stood and considered tearing off down the alley, but she turned and looked directly at me. My fingers were so stiff from the cold that I lost my grip on my cloak and the wind brushed the fabric over my shoulders and pulled my hood nearly off my head. I turned away and struggled to cover myself, but I knew she had see me.

She jogged across the street and stood nearly up against my chest. "So it is you," she said.

I couldn't tell if she was particularly angry with me by her tone, but I bowed my head out of shame nonetheless.

"What are you doing?" she asked when I made no attempt at conversation.

"Nothing," I answered.

She peered beneath my hood and met my eye. "You are wearing a different mask," she observed. "From a distance it is difficult to see you have a face under the hood."

"I was trying to be inconspicuous." I turned from her and pulled the mask up briefly, but the bite from the unseasonably cold wind made me drop it back into place.

"Ah, I see."

"How...how did you know it was me?"

Madeline looked me over. "Your height and your posture. You are tall and stand very straight." She met my eye. "Did you get locked out of the theater?"

"No."

Her right hand shot out and grabbed my cloak, and her unexpected movement made me inhale sharply in surprise and take a step back. Despite months of her friendship, I still expected her to strike me for my insolence.

Madeline looked up at me in silence, her fingers still grasped tight to my cloak as she pulled it around me and gently adjusted my scarf and hood. All the while she kept her gaze trained on mine, soft and reassuring.

"Here." She offered a close-lipped smile. "Follow me before you freeze to death."

I trudged behind her with my head down like a scolded child being led back home. Part of me wanted to apologize for flinching while the other half of my turbulent mind did not want to address my skittish nature. I felt the downward tug of my insignificance, the weight of shame in my inadequacies. It was better that I remained silent.

After we walked half a street down and turned the corner, however, I realized we were not walking toward the theater.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

Madeline slowed her pace and waited until I walked beside her. "Drinking chocolate," she said brightly. "Something to warm you up a bit. This cloak is not made for winter."

"I don't have anything else," I said.

Before I could silently berate myself, Madeline stepped closer and put her hand on my shoulder. "I know and I imagine you must be freezing."

"My feet are warm," I said.

Madeline gave me a sideways look. "Your feet?"

"I have two pairs of wool socks on."

Her lips spread into a wide, appreciative grin. "Ah, well, at least your feet are warm and you had the sense to bring a scarf."

"Are you upset with me?" I blurted out.

We passed several people, two waiting carriages, and three gendarmes smoking beneath a streetlamp. My muscles tightened as the gendarmes eyed us in passing, but they did nothing more than nod at Madeline before they resumed their conversation.

"Why would I be upset with you?" she asked at last.

"Because…"

Anything I said would prove my guilt. I should not have been on the streets of Paris. I should not have been mingling in a crowd. I should not have been doing anything at all. I should have stayed in complete solitude, away from the rest of the world.

"Because you are young and easily bored spending days on end in the same place? No, I am not upset with you for venturing outside. I suppose I wish you would have told me, but I am not upset with you."

I looked away from Madeline, unsure of what to say. I was far too accustomed to taking the blame for everything that I did not know how to respond.

"The wind is worse on the roof," I whispered. "So cold at night I can barely breathe. I would have gone back tonight, but..." I shrugged. I wasn't sure what I wanted.

When I had stepped onto the roof the previous night, I felt as though the air had been punched from my lungs the cold stung so badly. It was a familiar sensation, one that reminded me of both my father and Garouche. Even with my hands over my face, I could barely breathe, and after a disappointing few minutes on the rooftop, I returned down the stairs and back into the cellar.

"It's far too cold on the roof," Madeline agreed. She nudged me in the side and nodded toward a very brightly lit cafe with yellow walls trimmed in white. It reminded me of an egg cooked in a pan.

"There," she said. "The best drinking chocolate in Paris."

I followed her to the corner and stopped short of the bright lights and milling crowd. "I will wait here," I offered.

Madeline frowned but didn't question me, and I stood with arms wrapped around my shivering frame as she joined the line inside the cafe and returned a few minutes later with two small cups steaming with drinking chocolate.

"Here." Madeline passed me one of the cups. "Careful, it's very hot."

I watched the swirl of steam whisked away by the breeze and caught a whiff of the chocolate, cream and hint of peppermint. Madeline blew on the surface of her cup to cool it faster and I did the same.

The first sip was wonderfully warm and sweet. I swore I felt my blood warm while my painfully stiff fingers relaxed around the cup.

"How many times have you been out looking around?" Madeline casually asked.

"Once," I answered. "This is the first time."

"How did you decide where to go?"

"I followed the crowds."

Madeline nodded. "Make certain you stay to this part of the city," she told me. "It's nicer."

"What is on the other side of the city?" I asked.

Madeline inhaled. "In the opposite direction is gambling, street fights, thieves, and brothels...trouble."

Truthfully it sounded exciting.

"What were those two men fighting over?" I asked.

Madeline rolled her eyes. "Carlotta, more than likely. She has started a bit of trouble between several foolish men. She has them falling over one another and tomorrow she will not give either of them the time of day."

"Oh," I said merely to say something.

A soft rain had started, the mist visible in the gas lamps along the streets. I could feel the spray of droplets against my wrist where my cloak had slid down my arm and quickly adjusted the sleeve.

Madeline shook her head. "Why do men feel the need to fight over women?" she asked me.

I stared back at her with the rim of the cup against my lips and shrugged, unsure of whether the question was rhetorical.

"It never ends well," she said.

In the ten months I traveled with the gypsies I saw a handful of such incidences. Most were small scuffles that resulted in little more than bruised egos, but one disagreement between one of the gypsies and a local turned violent.

"I saw a knife fight once," I blurted out. "When I was with the gypsies."

Madeline's eyes widened beneath the hood of her cloak. "My goodness."

"It happened quickly," I added. "And I was on the opposite side of the camp."

Chained, I almost told her, both feet secured to the wagon I had been forced to walk behind for half a day between towns. My knees had been raw from stumbling along the road and falling several times, and since the wagon did not stop on my account, I had scraped both my knees and the palms of my hands. I could not recall why I had been punished, not that it truly mattered.

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Both of them, I think. Garouche's nephew needed stitches. The other man was carried away. I am not sure what happened to him."

That was not true, but Madeline seemed quite alarmed by my words and I did not want to tell her the other man had a slice across his ribs and a jab to his side. He had bled profusely and we were run out of town. From the frantic nature of our departure I was certain the other man had died.

"You were wise to stay away," Madeline said. She drank the rest of her chocolate and squeezed my arm. "Thankfully these _boys_ are a little more civilized."

I took the last sip of my now lukewarm chocolate and Madeline took the cup from me and walked them back to the cafe while I remained out of sight.

The warmth I felt faded, and when Madeline returned once more, I had started to shiver quite violently again. She took one look at me and linked her arm with mine. The sudden closeness caught the breath in my throat.

"I'll find you something more suitable to wear in the cold," she said. "Tomorrow afternoon when I'm out I'll look for a heavier cloak and some gloves to keep your hands warm before you lose a finger to frostbite."

I stared straight ahead at the street and imagined myself walking my sister home after an evening of music, browsing shop windows, and drinking chocolate. The cold stung a little less, my steps more confident as the Opera House came into view.

"If you wish to join us one night,"Madeline offered.

I merely nodded. She was being polite, I knew, and I doubted she expected me to take her offer seriously, but I smiled inwardly as I thought of accompanying a group of performers.

"Oh!" Madeline said suddenly. "Do you think you can tolerate another ten minutes outside? I want to show you something."

Despite my teeth nearly chattering, I nodded and allowed her to grab me by the wrist and tug me up the street. The misting rain caught on my eyelashes and I blinked rapidly to clear my vision as we made our way up a steep incline. Madeline came to an abrupt stop in front of a tailor's storefront that had long since closed for the day. She turned her head from side to side, then stretched her arms toward the sky. After several moments, she twisted her spine, then bent forward and touched her toes.

"What are you doing?" I asked. By all appearances, she looked ready to take the stage for a ballet solo performance.

"Stretching."

"Yes, I see, but why?"

Madeline grinned back. "You will see in a moment."

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and took off running several paces before she squatted down, shot her arms out for balance, and slid nearly to the bottom of the street. All the while she made a high-pitched sound that was part laughter and part screech.

With a wave of her hand, she sprinted back to where I stood, her breaths ragged and visible in the night air. She smiled at me, then proceeded to slide down a second time with the same mixture of terrified scream and impish laughter.

"Your turn," she said once she jogged up beside me a second time.

I looked from her toward the bottom of the street and hesitated. "I will watch."

"No," Madeline firmly countered. "Try it once. Please."

I would fall, I wanted to tell her. I would undoubtedly lose my balance and tumble like a sack of rocks down to the bottom of the street and humiliate myself in the process.

Before I could reply, however, she laced her fingers with mine and pulled me forward, and the momentum sent us both sailing down the street.

"Bend your knees!" Madeline ordered.

My grip on her hand tightened, my knees bent and I held my left hand out for balance as we slid downward. I felt like a newborn foal unsteady on my feet, teetering back and forth as I grit my teeth and held my breath.

"That is...truly awful," I said once we reached the bottom. My stomach felt as though it had somersaulted, my heart lodged in my throat. "Exhilarating, hear-pounding, death-defying…"

"Let's do it one more time," Madeline suggested. She held tight to my hand, her breathing rapid and a wide grin on her face. "Once more and then we can return to the Opera House."

Not once in my life had I done something so utterly childish as sliding down the side of a street slick with rain. Not once had I been allowed to submit to reckless abandon without the fear of punishment to follow.

For a fleeting moment adrenaline pumped through my veins, a scream lodged in the back of my throat as I slid down at the mercy of my own balance.

I had never felt anything like it before and I knew I would never feel it again.

"Once more," I agreed at last.

Madeline released my hand and raced me to the top of the street. "I've seen quite a few people fall on this patch of cobblestone. They don't realize how slippery it gets once the rain starts," she said. "I've always wanted to try this to see how far I can go."

She pushed her hood back and rubbed her hands together as she looked at me with her cheeks rosy and breaths like puffs of smoke from her nostrils.

"Race me," she said.

"Race you?"

"Yes."

"What does the winner receive?" I asked.

Madeline thought a moment. "The loser gets to watch me raise my hands in triumph at the bottom of the hill!" she exclaimed before she took off running in an unfair head start.

Dumbfounded, I stood and watched her for a long moment before I took a breath and followed her lead. She was graceful, like a swan preparing to land on a lake. I tried to watch her, to appreciate how she glided with ease, but truthfully I was so concerned with rolling head over heels down the street that I forced my eyes away from her and focused on the patch of slick, smooth cobblestones.

True to her word, Madeline danced around in victory before she playfully pushed her hand against my arm. I smiled back at her and shook my head.

"You cheated."

Madeline shrugged. "So I did."

Without a word, I turned and bolted back up the street. I had already started to slide down a third time when she reached the top and planted her hands on her hips.

Once she slid down and met me at the bottom, we were both out of the breath and grinning like fools. I raised my hands in victory and threw my head back, looking at the overcast night sky above me. The swirl of rain and the gathering of dark clouds had never looked so beautiful than in that very moment.

"Let's get back inside," Madeline suggested as she tugged at my arm.

I pulled up my mask, wiped the perspiration from my face, and nodded. "A draw, then?"

Before I settled my mask into place, I saw her roll her eyes. "Very well, a draw I suppose." She purposely bumped into me and laughed to herself. "For now."

"I will race you back to the Opera House," I said.

I had barely finished speaking when Madeline sprinted ahead of me, her arms flailing as she glanced back. She flashed a smile and slowed her pace, motioning for me to follow her.

Once I caught up, we walked together side by side until the Opera House came into view.

"Erik, how did you intend to gain entrance into the theater once you left?" Madeline asked.

I bit my lower lip. "I stole Buquet's keys," I answered at last.

Madeline paused outside the stage door and stared at me. After a blissful moment of acting like children, I fully expected she would return to her matronly role and scold me for my actions.

"How did you mange to steal his keys?"

"He was drunk. I was patient."

For a long moment her expression was unreadable, but at last she smirked. "We will keep this between us," she said with a shake of her head. "I am sure he will blame it on the Opera Ghost."

Her words made me smile as we entered the Opera House and a warm burst of air greeted us.

The Opera Ghost was not done with Buquet yet. Not yet.


	30. Street Urchin

Sorry it took me so long to update. I hope some of you are still with me! Leave me a review if you're still out there please!

Chapter 30

Madeline relayed all of the Opera House gossip-most of which I had already overheard-when she delivered my new cloak, winter gloves, and a pair of boots so sturdy and warm I hesitated to accept them as I feared damaging such fine craftsmanship.

"This must have cost a fortune," I said as I ran my hand along the woolen cloak Madeline had draped over the back of my chair.

The garment was dark green in color with a gray lining that looked almost silver in the light. Thick and heavy, I could hardly wait for a cold evening to envelope myself in its warmth on the rooftop.

"Try it on," Madeline suggested. She clasped her hands and rose on the balls of her feet in shared anticipation.

I did as she requested and spun in a circle, causing the end of the cloak to swirl around me.

"Perfect." Madeline grinned. "Go look in the mirror."

I could not deny her request. With my new boots and luxurious cloak, I made my way to the mirror and looked myself over.

"What do you think?" Madeline asked as she sidled up beside me. As we stood side-by-side, I could not tell who was more excited.

"I look forward to the cold," I answered.

Madeline brushed her hands over my shoulders and straightened the fabric. "Do you know what you need now?" she asked. "You need a haircut."

I turned my head from side to side and ran my fingers through my hair. The longer strands were nearly to my shoulders, which I had not noticed, while the hair growing in was considerably shorter tufts filling in the bald spots.

"Sit and I will cut it for you."

"I could do it."

"When was it last cut?"she asked.

I shrugged in response. My hair had been pulled out in clumps many times, my scalp tender and bruised from fistfuls yanked out by my father and Garouche, but never cut.

"Never," I answered. "Is it...uncomfortable?"

Madeline returned to the table and I followed. She pulled out a pair of scissors in a leather sheath and trimmed the end of her braid while I looked on.

"Not at all,"she answered. "Sit. This will only take a moment."

I removed my new cloak and hung it by the door, then turned and walked solemnly back to the table like a man condemned. I sat very straight and still on the bench with my hands on my knees and breath held in anticipation, which amused Madeline. She cut a single hair and showed it to me before she combed out the tangles and did her best to make my hair one length.

The languorous sensation of fingers against my scalp made me exhale and relax. I stared straight ahead at the flowers Madeline had brought weeks ago that were now dried out, and I found my thoughts pulled to the weeds crowded around the headstone behind my parents' house.

My mother had placed flowers against the grave-my grave-only once that I could recall. I had seen her toss down the bouquet held together with twine where it landed unceremoniously in the grass before she returned inside. I recalled how I waited for her to look at me as I stared out from the cellar, how I considered calling to her, but I feared my words would be upsetting.

I wondered if my mother had ever ran her fingers through my hair when I was an infant, if she had ever shown me a moment of tenderness that I was far too young to recall. I wanted desperately to believe there had been a moment when she had loved me and lulled me to sleep. Perhaps she had caressed my hair and told stories one night as she rocked me in her lap. Perhaps once-only once-she had loved me.

"Erik?" Madeline said. She nudged my shoulder and I inhaled sharply once I realized I had been lost in daydreams.

"I apologize," I mumbled.

"I thought you were about to fall asleep."

"No," I answered. "I was thinking of my mother."

Madeline handed me a small, round mirror and continued to push my hair around until she apparently found it suitable. "Good thoughts, I hope."

I stared at my reflection and Madeline peeking over my shoulder at my uncovered face. "I cannot think of a single moment where my mother treated me like her son," I said. "Sometimes I wish I knew what I could have done to earn her affection."

Madeline returned the scissors to the sheath and placed them into her bag before she found a broom and dustpan near the crates. She swept up the hair and dumped it into a trash receptacle in need of being emptied, then took a seat across from me. She sat for a long moment staring at a knot in the wood without saying a word.

"It is not a child's duty to earn a mother's affection," she said at last.

"I made it my duty,"I replied. "I used to listen to my mother from the top of the cellar stairs. I would sit for hours on the other side of the door and listen to her voice. Most of the time I could not understand what she said, but I did not care. I would imagine she spoke to me."

Several times I fell asleep against the door, lulled to sleep by her repetitive murmur of nonsensical words, only to be jolted awake by my father's heavy footsteps. No matter how I attempted to scurry down and out of sight, he always spotted me.

Madeline picked at the knot in the wood with her fingernail and frowned. "That sounds very lonely," she replied.

"There were worse thing than loneliness," I quietly answered.

Madeline shivered at my words and ran her hand along her forearm. She sat up a little straighter and looked me over. "We will not speak of such things," she said firmly.

"Are you leaving?" I asked, dreading the thought of being alone after sharing an intimate detail of my past.

"No." She smiled, and the sense of relief I felt in her staying a while longer made me smile as well. "I have news."

As it turned out, Cathedra di Carlo did not die as everyone expected. She improved enough to be able to leave her apartments across the street from the Opera House, but not enough where she would be able to perform.

With the change in her health, rehearsals resumed and the manager announced that the next scheduled performance would be in three days, on a Friday night, with Carlotta as the new lead.

"Cathedra is returning to the Opera House before the show on Friday," Madeline said. She gave a long and somewhat dramatic pause. "And she sent this."

With a wave of her hand, she placed an envelope on the table with a rose stamped into the red wax seal. When I turned the envelope over, it was marked with the words "Opera Ghost."

"How did you obtain this?" I asked.

"Her husband left it in the chapel. It sat there for a few hours before I took it." Madeline offered a close-lipped smile. "It is better in my hands than a scoundrel like Buquet."

With giddy excitement, I broke open the seal and devoured the contents.

"What did she say?" Madeline asked after several moments.

"She thanked me-the Opera Ghost, I should say-for returning her rings and said they have been missing for nearly three months. She also wants to thank the Opera Ghost in person before the performance on Friday night at six."

Madeline raised a brow. "Ciampa said no one is permitted in the halls from five-thirty until seven. Cathedra must have told him she wanted a private audience."

My heart raced as I scanned the note once more. "Do you think it is permissible to speak with her?" I asked as I met Madeline's eye.

With a smile, she nodded. "As the retired diva commands."

oOo

I looked forward to the performance Friday evening and the opportunity to speak with Cathedra di Carlo for what I assumed would be a final time. Despite our limited interactions, I still thought of her as mine. She had looked directly at me after the first performance I attended. She spoke to me alone in the chapel and thanked me for returning her rings. She was dear to me, and I assumed with the note she had written to her ghost, I was dear to her as well.

With three days before the next performance, my restlessness became unmanageable. I slipped out of the Opera House, keys strapped to my belt, and wandered around the streets in my new winter cloak and boots, desperate for a distraction from the ticking clock.

I stayed near the theater and walked briskly through the streets illuminated with gas lamps, stopping to slip apples to carriage horses as they waited for the drivers to return. The heat of their breaths rolled through the night air, their ears flicking back as I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. While the large beasts of burden ate from my open hand, I listened to street performers braving the chilly night air and watched people casually pass me.

No one seemed to notice I existed. After months of being placed on display for my hideous appearance, I was surprised how easily people walked past me without sparing a glance in my direction now that I had the hood of a cloak covering my features.

Once my apples were gone, I gave the two carriage horses a pat on the neck and slid my hands into my gloves. With my cloak pulled tight around my body and flesh colored mask obscured by a long, thick scarf, I allowed the sound of music to draw me further down the streets. From women singing as they stood on empty wooden crates to men with flutes, accordions, and violins, melodies surrounded me.

I walked until I found myself nearing a particularly large crowd blocking the street at an intersection with three musicians playing together. One man had a violin, another a drum, and the third a trumpet.

I dared to stand on the same side of the street as the rest of the crowd. My gloved fingers moving in time with the music, my head gently bobbing as I anticipated each note. A man beside me turned to a young woman and offered his hand, and the two of them danced to a waltz on the corner of the street. The crowd clapped in time with the music before several other couples joined in dancing. Soon enough, the street was alive with music and dancing.

Halfway through the song I found myself grinning beneath my mask, scarf and hood. No one realized I was the son of the devil or a living corpse. No one would have suspected I was scarred from birth with such a hideous visage that women fainted and children screamed.

I casually surveyed my surroundings, marveling at how I fit as an ordinary piece to a plain puzzle. With each passing second I relaxed and found myself nearly shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the spectators. Not a single person gave me more than a passing glance, and for the first time in my life, I felt as though I belonged in public.

The song ended and another one began, which kept the crowd dancing and entertained. The music was nothing elegant or particularly difficult to play, but laughter and clapping accompanied the trio huddled under a gas lamp.

In the back of my mind I pompously told myself I could have played my own violin much better than the performer who had started to walk through the crowd. A small boy with a mess of straw-like blond hair poking out from a hat followed behind him with the violin case. Several people readily dropped coins into the case as they weaved their way through, and, seeing the generosity of the spectators, I removed my glove and found a bank note. When the boy made his way to me, I folded the bill and added into the case. Instantly the boy looked down at the bank note, his eyes wide and mouth wide open. Before he could acknowledge me, I turned on my heel and darted toward the back of the crowd, deciding it was for the best not to draw attention to myself.

The moment I reached the middle of the street, I noticed a slender figure looming at the mouth of the alleyway where the street lamps did not reach. At first I thought it was a tall man, but once the child hopped down from the steps leading up to narrow doorway, I realized the individual was quite small. I could not tell if the child was a girl or a boy as there was nothing distinguishing about his or her silhouette. Still, the child moved its head in time with my movement and I knew the street urchin watched me.

I considered returning to the Opera House, but truthfully I had no desire for my night to come to a swift end, and I assumed no harm could come from a scrawny beggar.

Slowly I turned my attention back to the musicians while I watched the child scurry like a rat from the corner of my eye. After several moments, the child crouched down and jutted out a bare hand toward the crowds walking past, but no one offered a second glance, much less a coin to feed an empty belly.

Despite all I had endured in my fourteen years, not once had I begged for anything. On the nights I escaped from my parents' cellar, I rummaged through alleyways in search of discarded food alongside stray dogs, cats, raccoons and mice. I wasn't sure which was less dignified; finding my own half-eaten meals or begging for a merciful handout on a busy street.

"You got more to spare?" a tiny voice questioned.

I looked down and found a boy no older than six or seven standing before me. I glanced at him, then toward the alley and realized it was the same child. His eyes appeared too large for his small face, his lips dried and cracked from the cold. Something about him reminded me of a doll carved from wood with sharp features.

"Pardon me," the boy said. He tugged on my cloak and I took a step back. I would like to think I took a step back because I wanted a better look at him, but in all honesty, I moved away because his hands, face and hair were filthy and he had sores on his scalp from picking at lice. He also smelled worse than horse waste whereas I was freshly bathed.

The boy wiped his running nose with the back of his tattered sleeve and skittered from me to the next person, who also ignored him. Undeterred by rejection, he made his rounds to several more people before he returned to his place in the shadows and tucked his knees up to his chest.

I watched him for a moment, ashamed of myself for not acknowledging his presence. I wondered if he had ran away from home or if perhaps he had loving parents who had tragically died and left him an orphan. Regardless of how he had come to begging for spare change, he was alone and obviously hungry and cold.

On the opposite corner, an older, robust man hawked warm nuts that smelled like cinnamon. A crooked line of people had formed, and I joined them at a careful distance.

"Two, please," I said once I approached the front of the line.

The robust man never bothered to look up from his paper bags. He plucked the bank note from my hand, replaced it with change, and impatiently waited for me to take my food so that he could serve the next person.

My mouth watered at the scent of roasted nuts and cinnamon. Granules of sugar sparkled in the lamp light, and I gathered several nuts from one bag and stuffed them into my mouth. I surveyed the alley and street and found the same boy approaching another person who quickly discarded him by raising his cane over his head in an unnecessary and threatening manner.

The boy dashed back to the safety of the sidewalk. He saw me as I approached and started to turn to walk away, but I jogged toward him.

"Wait!" I called out.

He eyed me from a distance, his small frame stiff and owlish eyes wide with trepidation. He looked ready to bolt, but once I held out the paper bag, he took a step forward.

"Here," I said.

He did not bother with pleasantries. Quick as could be, he grabbed the paper bag and scooped out a fistful of nuts, which he stuffed so far into his mouth I was surprised he did not choke. He took several handfuls and chewed like a ravenous dog as he lingered a moment longer. I attempted to eat mine slowly, taking great care to not expose my mask.

"Thank you," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I nodded in return and watched the performers finish another song. Eventually the boy dashed away and the man with the violin announced they had one more song left for the night.

Although they clearly played for crumpled bank notes and dull coins thrown into a violin case, I watched and wondered if I could perform in similar fashion merely to entertain. I wasn't sure if I truly wished to entertain myself or the crowd, but I thought back to the tavern where my uncle had introduced me to the house band. They had been awestruck by my ability to play the violin. The streets of Paris would be equally under the spell of my violin. People would reach into their pockets and apologize for not being able to provide more and I would wave off their concerns. I played for the joy the instrument provided. I played for the release of melody deep in my bones. I played for others to experience what I felt quaking in my heart.

My thoughts were disrupted by the muffled sound of a struggle and the scrape of wood against stone. I turned my attention from the performers to the alleyway where two larger figures had pinned the small boy up against the brick. Two young men poked the boy in the chest and one hit him hard in the temple with a closed fist. The boy crumpled to the ground while one of the older boys took the paper bag from his hand. They stood over him, eating handfuls of nuts while the boy writhed beneath them.

Breath held, I stood at a distance and watched in silent horror as the two teens continued to strike the boy, who made no effort to fight back.

My uncle would have had both young men flat on their backs and begging for mercy. Madeline would have run over, given them a stern warning and chased them off. I thought of everything I should have done for the child who was now curled up on his side and whimpering while one of the older boys lifted his closed fist above his head and threatened to strike the young boy again.

The tormentors took their stolen bag of peanuts and walked away, their brutal actions unhindered by anyone who glanced in their direction-including me. The young boy managed to sit upright and eventually climb to his feet, and within minutes he disappeared down the alley and out of sight.

I wondered if the boy had seen me watch the attack. I wondered how many times he had been roughed up and robbed by older boys or strangers in the presence of people perfectly capable yet unwilling to intervene.

The final song ended, and I realized how easy it was to simply stand by and watch one person threaten or hurt another. Month after month with the traveling fair there had been consistently many more bystanders who watched Garouche club me to the ground. Out of roughly thirty people in attendance per show, perhaps two stepped forward to throw rotten vegetables or rocks, but the rest merely spectated.

They blended into the background, a sea of faces lacking expression. Once in a while I would see a woman gasp and cover her mouth or an older man grimace and shake his head, but no one spoke out-no one until Madeline. Six times a day, six days a week, for ten months, people filed into the tents, craned their necks for a better look at the devil's son, and quietly departed without a second thought as I crawled into the corner and covered my face. Thousands upon thousands of people walked past me without saying a word in protest.

And now I was no different than any of them.

I trudged back toward the Opera House, my roasted peanuts largely uneaten and tucked into my cloak. The scent of cinnamon and sugar no longer seemed appealing, and my stomach churned.

My hands trembled as I unlocked the side door and rushed into the theater, through the hall, and down the cellar steps. Once I was in my own apartments, I pulled off my outer garments, unlaced and removed my boots, and reached for my mask.

"Where were you?"

Madeline's voice startled me. I fumbled with and nearly dropped my mask as I pulled it up, wiped my forehead, and watched her rise from the armchair she usually sat in when she visited.

"Why did you help me?" I asked.

Madeline stretched her arms above her head and paused at my question, her mouth open at the start of a yawn. "I beg your pardon?"

"That night at the fair," I said. "Why did you do it?"

She pursed her lips and thought a moment. I wasn't sure what I wanted her to say; perhaps validation of worth that I lacked in my own eyes or perhaps I sought reasons why both Madeline and my uncle were far superior to me.

"I suppose I don't know," she said at last. "Why do you ask?"

Despite being disappointed by Madeline's answer, I merely shrugged.

Madeline took a deep breath. "You smell like cinnamon," she commented.

I turned, grabbed the paper bag from the inside pocket of my new cloak, and handed the package to her.

"You were out for some time," she said before popping a handful of nuts into her mouth.

"I apologize if I kept you waiting."

Madeline gave a wave of her hand and shook her head. "Quite frankly waiting down here prevented me from attending a soiree for Carlotta."

"You did not want to attend?"

"There are six different events planned." She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I will attend one."

"Six?"

"All planned by the new soprano. I dare say she is not humble."

I smiled at Madeline's words. She rarely showed her wicked side, but when she did, it was carefully measured.

"What did you do tonight?" Madeline asked.

 _I saw an innocent child be beaten down and robbed_ , I wanted to say.

"There was music on a street corner," I answered simply.

"Quite possibly the last night for outdoor performances," Madeline said. "But there will be plenty of performances here."

"I would like to perform," I blurted out.

Madeline blinked at me. "You want to perform?"

"Outside," I clarified. "With my violin."

She remained silent for a long moment and brought another handful of nuts to her lips. "You would be very good, especially since you have the winter to practice."

I nodded slowly, unsure of whether or not she would ultimately caution against my intention of performing. While the trio had entertained, I imagined myself closer to the Opera House, perhaps across the square and beneath the lamp light where the city bustled with crowds late into the night. Hundreds of people would hear and appreciate the music I played.

"I have a case for my violin. I found one earlier today," I said as though somehow this would justify my plans.

Again Madeline nodded. She walked toward the table and I followed behind her. "Where would you play?" she casually asked.

"Across the street."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

When she went silent, I felt my elation falter. I was fully aware that I had not thought out much of my plan other than I wanted to play.

"I will keep my mask on," I reasoned. "And the scarf wrapped around my head and the hood low so no one will see me. I will-I will not be seen."

As much as I wanted to believe I had a new sense of confidence I knew that even nestled beneath the scarf and mask I was no different. Yet still I wanted this opportunity, needed this moment for the world to hear me, to know what I was capable of doing. I didn't not care that I had no concrete plan; I wanted what I wanted and nothing would stop me.

"What would you play?" Madeline asked.

I could not tell if she was being overly pleasant or condescending, but I was becoming agitated and assumed it was the latter. She did not believe in me. She thought I was a weak, sniveling brat that needed rescued. Frustration left me almost trembling in anger.

"I would play whatever I wanted," I answered.

Madeline folded the top of the paper bag and placed it onto the table. "You should make a list of songs you wish to play."

"I will."

"Would you like me to help you?" she asked.

"No," I answered sharply. "No, I do not need your assistance."

Madeline tilted her head to the side and looked at me for a long moment. "What is wrong?" she gently asked. She took a step forward and I took a step away, which made her stop. "Erik, what happened? Why are you upset?"

"I am not upset," I argued.

"Then please tell me what happened when you were out."

I turned away from her, unable to rid my thoughts of the boy I had seen and my own violent, nightmarish past. I should have done something, anything at all.

"What should you have done?" Madeline asked.

I hadn't realized I spoke my regrets aloud until she placed her hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the armchairs. There she asked me to sit, pulled her chair closer, and looked me over.

"He was young," I said. "Six or seven years of age, I would guess."

I mumbled through what I had witnessed, haunted by the tangled images of what I had seen and what I had experienced. I realized I could barely distinguish one thought from the next.

"How terrible," Madeline agreed.

Her words did nothing to calm what I felt inside. "I should have done something."

"You could have been hurt."

"You would have done something," I blurted out. "Without being prompted, without a second thought, you would have stopped them."

Madeline pursed her lips. "I do not know what I would have done."

We remained silent for an uncomfortable moment, and the longer we went without speaking, the more I realized how hard I was breathing.

"I am glad you are safe," Madeline offered. "And if you choose to play tomorrow night, I will look for this boy you saw. I have extra gloves and a hat he could have as well."

I sat up straighter in my chair and gripped the armrests,surprised by her words. "You would accompany me?"

Madeline appeared amused by my question. "Of course. I will come down at eight to go over your musical selections and we will walk out together and find a good spot."

A chance to play in public, to perform before passing strangers on the bustling streets of Paris. I was not sure if I should have felt elated or frightened half to death, but the darkness inside of me slowly ebbed. I had another opportunity to make certain the nameless boy was fed and safe. Perhaps I could offer him shelter for the night and the safety of the Opera House.

"Thank you," I said, my mind racing with the possibilities. "Thank, Madeline, thank you."


	31. Drowning

Chapter 31

I had not realized the heaviness I carried inside, not until months after I had taken up residence beneath the Opera House and truly appreciated the sanctuary I was allowed. Once I had a sense of peace, I started to understand how my former life was less than ideal.

Physically the bruises had long since healed and old wounds closed. Thin scars along my torso, arms and legs were ignored when I bathed in the lake, and sleep was no longer light and elusive. There were still nightmares, but not as frequently as I had grown accustomed to experiencing.

Yet the anxiety and restlessness never truly left me, and I realized as I stood staring at the ripples in the underground lake that the feeling was always there beneath the surface. It was a constant effort on my part to swallow down the nervousness before it consumed me, and there were many times I lost the battle.

I had stayed up well into the night, playing various musical selections that I considered playing on the streets of Paris. At the start of the evening, I had created sixteen neatly organized piles of music on my bed, however, by three in the morning, the piles had shifted due in part to a breeze coming from across the lake, but mostly the result of my poor skills in keeping my work space tidy.

At some point I fell asleep in the armchair with the bow still in my hand and thankfully my violin on the bed, used as an expensive and delicate paperweight. I woke to the sound of a tremendous crash and voices-many masculine voices.

In the initial haze of sleep, I thought I was in the midst of a nightmare from my days in the traveling fair. I sat up with a start, my back in knots as I straightened from a slumped over position.

"You there!" a man bellowed.

At once I was on my feet, papers scattering as I reached across the bed for my mask. I knocked over the side table in the process and frantically attempted to devise a plan of escape despite not knowing where the voices came from or where the men were headed.

"It won't budge!" another man called out.

"Eh, then leave it. There are other ways around."

I felt another rush of cool air and realized the voices had carried from across the lake. The crash I heard was most likely the delivery doors opening harder than usual because of the strong winds.

I shivered as the gust blew all of the papers onto the floor, some of which landed near the water. Barefoot and annoyed, I snatched them up one by one in the meager lamplight and grumbled to myself as I stuffed them beneath candlesticks on the table and the empty box that had originally served as a violin case.

The voices faded, the doors shut once more, and the gust of cold air returned to the comfortable breeze that usually streamed through the cavern. I waited for several minutes to turn up the lamps, my heart still pounding from the invasion across the lake.

Despite not being able to see the opposite shoreline from where I stood, I feared the glint of light from my apartments would call attention to my hiding place. I could not risk being discovered, not ever. I feared what fate awaited me if anyone knew where I had taken up refuge.

Given the rush of adrenaline, I stood wide awake with a crumpled stack of papers beneath two mismatched silver candlesticks. I doubted anyone had treated Handel and Bach's music with such disrespect before as I attempted to smooth the pages.

"Clumsy, ignorant, fool," I said under my breath.

I paused, the palm of my hand pressed firmly to the page as my father's cruel words passed over my lips. In the back of my mind, his voice continued to taunt me. _You worthless, disgusting little bastard. Look at what you have done._

Out of all the wounds I had suffered, some were still quite open. I forced myself to turn away from the crumpled pages in hopes the words would fade away, but his voice filled my head.

 _Do you think anyone will ever want you? Do you think any woman would give herself to you freely?_

I had no idea what my father implied. All I knew for certain was that not a single person in the world, not even my own parents, had wanted anything to do with me. I was a pariah, a lonely and wounded beast of an adolescent too hideous for the rest of the world.

Without thinking, I fumbled with the buttons of my pajama shirt, tugged at the drawstring of my trousers, and numbly walked into the water. The glassy surface rippled as I entered and waded into the depths, the shock of cool water against warm skin mostly ignored. I forced my gaze to remain at a distance point in the darkness, to pretend the scars on my flesh were not waiting to be counted.

I knew the location and recalled the circumstances behind most of the marks on my body. I knew the three cigar burns; one on the bottom of my left foot, the next on my right calf, and the last one on my right forearm near the crook of my elbow. My toes curled and hands clenched as I thought of how I had attempted to grasp onto something, anything to prevent my father from dragging me across the length of the cellar. With dirt embedded beneath my fingernails and dust caked along the tear tracks on my face, I could not stop him from wrestling me to the ground like a pig and snuffing out his cigar on the bottom of my foot. I had been seven at the time, and once he finally released me, I hid beneath a table and held my breath until he returned upstairs and it was safe to sob alone.

There was a dog bite-a regrettable accident-on my upper right arm, the snag left behind from an iron nail on my upper left arm, and many thin, silvery lines across my chest and stomach.

Once I found the bubbling warmth of the hot spring in the lake, I sank down into the water and fully submerged myself. I held my breath until I surfaced and gasped for air, then pulled myself under once more, spreading my legs and arms out as my lungs deflated and I sank like an anchor.

My father's voice pierced the silence, and in the darkness, I screamed into the water bubbling up around me, emptied the air in my lungs out of protest in a manner I had never done before. I screamed for him to stop. Stop hurting me. Stop degrading me. Stop treating me like I am nothing to you. I regretted that he would never hear my words or understand what hell he put me through for no other reason than I was born with a scar to half my face.

Over and and over again I surfaced for a breath and returned beneath the water until I could no longer hold the air in my lungs. Exhausted and panting, I opened my eyes and found Madeline knee-deep in the water, a look of terror in her eyes as she attempted to hold onto her skirts and wade toward me.

I pushed off the bottom of the lake and deeper into the water, swimming desperately away from her as she was very much dressed and I was very much not.

"No," I shouted, my lips barely above the water's surface.

"Erik!" she yelled when she finally paused several meters away from me.

"I am not dressed," I said in warning.

Her skirts fanned out around her in the water, and she planted her hands on her hips. "You are not...dressed?"

"I am not."

"My God, I thought...I thought you were drowning," she admonished.

I realized that from a distance, my constant bobbing up for air and then sinking back into the water most likely resembled someone on the verge of drowning. Drowning seemed far less humiliating than admitting the truth.

"You scared me half to death," Madeline said before I could answer. Teeth gritted, she cupped her hand and splashed water toward me. "I left my shoes on the shore, and as I was taking them off all I could think of was what if you died because I did not want to ruin my best pair? Shame on you!"

She turned away and stomped out of the water, dripping wet and shaking her head as she passed my discarded clothing and paused beside her bag. "Ruined," she said as she pulled out what appeared to have been a muffin.

Mortified, I looked away from her and absently ran my thumb along the cigar burn on my forearm.

Once she exited the water, she sat and wrung out her skirts while I remained neck-deep in the water.

"Are you a decent swimmer?" she asked, briefly looking up to meet my eye. "Should I worry about you day and night in the water?"

I slowly shook my head. "I know how to swim well," I answered.

"Good." She climbed to her feet and rummaged through a chest of drawers until she found two towels, one which she used in an attempt to dry herself, the other which she left beside my scattered clothes.

"There are costumes for women if you wish to change into something dry," I offered, seeing as how she was still soaked to the bone.

Madeline sighed. She turned away from me, rummaged through one of the crates, then disappeared behind the stack while I faced away from the shore and tread water.

"Why don't you come out and dress yourself?" Madeline said once she returned in an emerald green skirt with lines of beads and garish embellishments. She draped her wet skirts over a makeshift drying rack I had devised for my own clothes when I washed and dried my laundry.

Madeline stepped out into the hall, and I scurried out, toweled myself dry, and hastily pulled on dry clothes. When I opened the door leading to the stairs, I was thankful to see her greet me with a smile.

"This skirt is deceptively heavy," she said. "And my heart is still racing."

I bowed my head. "I apologize."

"Why were you screaming if you were not drowning?" she questioned as she walked past me with her bag in hand and placed what was still intact of the muffin onto a plate.

Mortified, I froze several steps behind her and stared at the ground.

"Erik?" she questioned.

"I...I think there is something wrong with me," I blurted out, risking a glance in her direction.

Madeline whipped around, a look of concern on her face. She took a step forward and looked me over. "I'm not sure I understand."

I started to shake my head, far too ashamed to admit how I felt, but Madeline offered a gentle smile and motioned me to her side. Once I sat beside her, she pushed the muffin toward me and sat with her chin cupped in her hand.

"Why do you think there is something wrong with you?" she asked as she reached for the candlestick in the middle of the table and pursued the music I had selected.

With her eyes drawn away from me, I considered my answer carefully while I pressed my finger into the crumbs and slowly rolled them between my index finger and thumb.

"I am different," I said at last. "Not on the outside, but in my mind...I feel...I feel like there is something terrible." The words were painful to say aloud, and once they were out, I felt the emptiness left behind by my truth. I was an oddity, inside and out, the son of the devil down to the marrow of my bones.

I waited for Madeline to disagree with me or offer a complex and wise explanation of why being different was what made the world so wondrous, but instead she merely nodded.

"Do you feel like you want to hurt someone?"

"No," I said quickly. "No, of course not." My throat tightened, and I thought of Garouche. My feelings were still mixed when it came to his death, but I had no desire to hurt anyone else, not even my own father. "Never again," I vowed.

"Do you want to hurt yourself?"

It took me a moment to answer, but at last I shook my head. I was not certain if i was courageous or cowardly that I did not want to take my own life. The brief time spent with my uncle showed me that life could be pleasant while his death and the months that followed merely added to my cynicism.

Madeline nodded. I picked at the muffin, taking slow bites of soft blueberries in an attempt to distract myself, but nothing cleared my mind. Frustrated by my inability to express how I felt, I pushed the plate halfway across the table and twisted in my seat, facing toward the water.

"What happened to these pages?" Madeline gently asked.

"They blew off the table," I explained, keeping my back to her. "I did not want them ruined in the water, but I suppose they have still been destroyed."

"Hmmm."

From the corner of my eye, I watched as Madeline ran her hand over the sheets of paper, but the crinkles could not be smoothed out. I twisted my spine and watched as she looked over the music sheet by sheet.

The silence stretched on and I leaned forward, lacing my fingers together. "When the pages blew off the table, I thought of what my father would have said to me. He would have called me clumsy, ignorant…" My throat tightened, and as much as tried to clear my voice, speaking became difficult. I could not bring myself to repeat the rest of his words.

"That is what you meant by there is something terrible inside of you? His insults?"

I nodded, keeping my gaze trained on my clasped hands. Words should not have had the ability to hurt worse than a fist, and yet the insults were embedded within me.

"There are times when we are in rehearsals and I miss a step, and all I can think of is the old ballet mistress stalking behind us, muttering under her breath that I would never be anything but a dancer blending into the background. Every time she would tell us to stop and start over again, I feared making the same mistake twice because then she would make me go through the steps alone with the rest of the dancers watching. She would try to prove her point that I would never be good enough to be principal. It has been three years now since she retired, and I still picture her standing behind me."

I dreaded my father's words still woven through my thoughts more than a year since I had last seen him. I could not bear years of his hatred following me.

""It is not as often these days," Madeline told me. "And there are times when I miss a step, ram into another Anne, and create a moment of pure havoc that disrupts the entire theater," she said with a laugh.

"The entire theater indeed," I said under my breath.

Madeline playfully bumped my shoulder with hers. "Right down to the cleaning staff dusting the chairs," she said with a grin. "Believe me, I have made mistakes that will be talked about for ages."

"You are without fault," I said.

Madeline blew air past her lips and discarded my comment with a roll of her eyes. "What fun would that be?" She looked at me from over her shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. "Turn around and eat your food," she said firmly. "It will make you feel better to have something in your stomach."

Her tone commanded obedience, and I swung my legs back over the bench and reached for my plate, feeling a pang of hunger. Before I could take a bite, Madeline pulled off a morsel and popped it into her mouth with a devilish grin.

I appreciated her willingness to share a meal with me and how she effortlessly transition from her stern, motherly tone to playfully stealing a bite. The warmth of her arm against mine and the musical sound of her kind words drowned out my father's cruel taunts.

"Is this what you selected to play tonight?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I have not made a final decision."

"Saint-Georges," Madeline said. "This concerto is lovely, even with the wrinkles."

I grunted. She was making an attempt to ease my self-deprecation, but I was not easily swayed.

"That concerto is my favorite."

"It was raining before I came down here," Madeline commented. "Hopefully it clears by nightfall so that you are able to play as you wished."

"I would still play in the rain."

"Ah, there is your flare for the dramatic. Willing to stand in the rain for your art."

Her words made me unexpectedly chuckle. "I would do anything for music."

Music-and the Opera House in particular-was my solace. I looked over the music from Saint-George, a man who was not only a composer and avid fencer, but the son of a slave. I admired him for the way he he found acceptance within society-at least to a certain degree. While I was able to mask the ruined half of my face, he could not hide the color of his skin, and for all of his contributions to music, he was still denied much in his lifetime.

His accomplishments as a musician and composer, however, inspired me, and I stood abruptly to reach across the table for blank sheets of paper.

"I will compose my own music," I said quite suddenly. "And I will play it tonight in the rain if I must and then for Senora di Carlo as a parting gift tomorrow."

"You intend to compose something now?" Madeline asked.

I caught the skepticism in her tone, but my mind was set. "Saint-Georges followed by an original piece," I said. "Two pieces of music."

And once I finished playing, all of Paris would clamor for more of my music. The thought was quite exhilarating.

"Do you have time?"

"If Mozart could write the overture to Don Giovanni in a morning, I could most certainly write a concerto in twelve hours."

I failed to mention that I had previously attempted to write a symphony, but found there was not a single melody willing to entertain me. For once I vowed to set my past failure aside and focus on my potential.

"If you don't mind the company, I will stay until my skirts have dried," Madeline said.

"I would like that very much," I answered.


End file.
